Goldilocks and the Red Wizard
by Donnamour1969
Summary: A Mentalist fairytale. Prince Patrick is captured by outlaw hero Teresa Lisbon and held for ransom. As their unlikely love blossoms, the evil wizard, Red John plots to ruin their happiness. Extreme AU! Give it a try! Rated T/M for language/adult situation
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, so many of you have bravely followed me through my various crazy story ideas, from French farces to "The Mentalist" Old West style, to my recent ghost story. Please stay with me now as I jump on the fairy tale bandwagon. I love fairy tales, have always loved them, and then as an adult, I have loved historical romance. You can see the evolution there. But now, with fairy tales back en vogue, yet another crazy AU idea has captured my imagination, and here I am again, begging your indulgence. If I'm going to keep writing for "The Mentalist," I have to find ways to keep myself entertained so that hopefully, I can entertain you as readers.

I will try not to make this too over-the-top, and the challenge of course is to try to keep everyone in character, despite the different time and place. (Oh, and you have to imagine they have British accents, lol. Or not, I guess.) I'll be stealing from everything from the Brothers Grimm to Robin Hood, but mostly this is a romance, pure and simple, with a little magic thrown in along the way. Thanks for taking a chance again, and if you're a new reader, welcome. I hope you enjoy this.

**Goldilocks and the Red Wizard**

_**Prologue**_

Once upon a time, there lived a very handsome, golden-haired prince named Patrick. He loved magic and fortunetelling, and took great pleasure in showing off his skills to all the courtiers. He became so proficient, that he incited the jealousy of a certain wizard by the name of Red John, personal advisor to King Stiles.

A careless remark by the prince, belittling Red John's talents, was all it took to incite the wrath of the spiteful wizard. He demanded satisfaction or vowed revenge. In his arrogance, Prince Patrick refused to apologize.

Thus, with one flourish of Red John's hands, Prince Patrick's wife and young daughter fell lifeless to the castle's marble floor. Devastated, the prince rose from his throne to confront the wizard with his own magic. But alas, before he could raise a hand, Red John disappeared in a puff of smoke, his evil laughter echoing through the halls. He would never be heard from again.

At least, that's what everyone believed…

**Chapter 1**

_Five years later…_

"Do you think he will like me," asked Princess Grace to her brother Patrick.

The royal carriage rattled along the King's Highway through the countryside, the matching bays paying no mind to the verdant hills around them. The siblings were three days along in their journey of four, and both were exhausted, despite the nightly stops in the royal family's castles and manor houses along the way.

Prince Patrick sighed, reaching inside himself for patience. His sister had asked this at least twice a day since they'd left, and he was trying not to add any more pressure than the poor girl felt already. It must be hard to leave the only home she'd ever known to marry a man whom she'd never met. But Grace and Lord Craig been betrothed since her birth, and now it seemed their impending marriage would be the only way to avoid going to war.

"Of course. How could he not?" he replied. "You're beautiful, Grace. If Lord Craig doesn't fall instantly in love with you, I'll…I'll eat my purse." And he drew out his small, velvet draw-string bag, heavy with coins, and pretended to stuff it in his mouth before drawing his hand away with a flourish to show that it had disappeared.

Grace laughed at his trick, as he'd intended. He rarely did magic anymore since Angela and Charlotte's deaths; he'd once told Grace it was too painful a reminder. She knew then he must be trying very hard to cheer her, and so grew instantly contrite.

"I'm sorry I'm being such a worry wart. I want to do what's right for our people, and if I do not please Lord Craig…"

"Don't borrow trouble, Grace," he said softly. "Now try to get some rest, my dear. We won't reach Castle Hartshorne until long after dark."

Grace obediently closed her eyes and leaned her bright red head more comfortably into the overstuffed seat. He watched her fondly a moment before turning his face toward the setting sun whose last rays shone in through the window. The carriage was winding its way now through a dense forest, the rolling hills having given way to tall hardwood trees with wispy green ferns covering the ground. Here and there purple and white flowers dotted the forest floor. Despite his best efforts to stay awake, the sway of the coach began to lull him to sleep, and so it was that Patrick was terribly startled when they suddenly lurched to a hard stop, nearly throwing him and his sister into the floorboards.

"What the devil was that?" he cursed, going to the window and squinting now into the darkness. He rapped on the ceiling.

"What's happened," he called to the coachman. "Why have we stopped?"

There was no answer, and Patrick heard the faint sound of a scuffle, then the distinct clamor of someone falling from the perch of the coach and landing with a thud.

"What was that?" Grace cried, instinctively pulling her ermine lined cloak more tightly around her. Patrick's hand went to the latch.

"Stay here," he cautioned. "Maybe we've hit something."

But he knew the moment he exited the coach and caught sight of the dancing lanterns that they were being waylaid by someone bent on doing them harm. He felt a cold chill run down his spine, fearful more for his sister than for himself. For once, he wished he carried a pistol, or at the very least, that his sword was inside the carriage instead of stored in its case on the back. He peered into the darkness and saw the vague outline of his coachman on the ground, and no sign of their accompanying outrider knight on horseback.

He should have listened to his father and brought an entire royal contingent of guards, for it had been five years since he'd been this far away from his home castle, and apparently the roads were not as safe as they used to be. When another sword poked lightly against his throat, he wished more than ever that he wasn't such a stubborn man. The figure accosting him was small, his entire body covered in black, including a dark hood that completely shrouded his features.

"Well, what have we here," he said in a low, gruff voice. "Looks like a fine peacock ready for the plucking."

Patrick knit his brows at her logic. "You eat peacocks?"

The tip of the thin sword dug more deeply into his neck. "Shut up," said the highwayman. "Now, you'll pardon me while I check your coat for valuables."

He felt a small hand reach out to pat him down, and it was in that instant Prince Patrick realized his highwayman was in fact a highway _woman_. He grinned.

"What are you smiling at, pretty boy?" she said, finding his purse and raising it triumphantly.

"Oh, nothing…_sir."_

Patrick sensed rather than saw her hesitation, but soon he was pushed so hard against the side of the carriage that it rocked roughly. Despite her slim shoulders, the lady was deceptively strong. With that, a tall, hooded man emerged from the darkness with his lantern. Another, much shorter man, similarly clothed, stepped into the light, his own lamp swinging.

The tall man held his light closer to the carriage.

"From the looks of the crest on the door, seems we've caught ourselves a pretty big fish." He bowed mockingly. "To whom are we speakin', your royalness?"

Patrick wondered why he wasn't afraid of this small band, even though his coachman still lay motionless nearby.

"I am Prince Patrick of Maliborough. And you are?" He rose to his full height, looking purposefully down his nose at them all, but humor sparked deep within his blue-green eyes.

"We are the ones asking the questions," said the woman, still affecting the gruff tone. "But look how pretty this one is," she continued to her cohorts. "He looks more like a Princess _Jane_ than a Patrick, with all those lovely blonde curls and that lace at his gullet. It would be a shame to soil his beautiful white ruffles with blood." He felt the slight stick of the sword, felt a small, warm rivulet run down his neck and into his blouse.

"Oops," she said softly. Her men chuckled.

The amusement left Patrick's eyes, but his smile remained frozen on his lips. "You have my money, now let me go," he said tightly. He felt a sudden fear for what these men might do to his sister once they discovered her inside the coach, and he didn't want to trust his first instinct that this band of robbers was harmless.

"Sorry, Your Highness, but there are a few more ripe cherries yet to pluck from this tree."

She continued to hold her sword at his throat while his men shone their lights on the luggage strapped to the carriage.

"No way we can take those trunks with us, Boss," said the shorter man.

"May as well take the whole carriage," said the taller one.

Their leader seemed to consider this information a moment. Patrick waited, heart pounding, to hear his fate. Grace was being admirably silent, but he knew she must be terrified inside the coach.

"How much do you think a prince would fetch? Especially a beauty such as this one," she asked, and Patrick knew she was still staring at him, evaluating his worth. It was highly unsettling.

"Ransom?" asked the shorter in surprise.

"We've never done a kidnapping before," said the taller, and his voice sounded a bit reluctant.

The prince, on the other hand, was heartened at this suggestion. You couldn't get much from a dead prince and princess.

"I think that's a fine plan," he risked saying, then hissed a little as the sword point found its mark again.

"Shut up," she said in annoyance. But Prince Patrick was not used to being silenced.

"My father would pay anything you asked. As of now, I'm the sole heir…"

He could imagine her eyes lighting up with greed. He wondered vaguely what color those eyes were beneath that dark hood, then mentally shook himself. It wouldn't do to start having fantasies about one's captor.

"Bind and gag him," she said abruptly, "and put him back in the carriage. Make sure that gag is particularly tight," she said with a hint of amusement. Though he could not see her reaction, he gave her his most charming smile. Patrick might not have any magic dust or fireworks on his person, but he'd found that his face was sometimes his most effective weapon. It wasn't his imagination that she stood speechless a moment while her cronies brought forth some rope from their nearby horses.

They bound his hands tightly in front, and their leader produced from her pocket a rather un-masculine handkerchief, edged in fine lace and smelling of rose petals. He raised an amused eyebrow. Then the linen scrap was unceremoniously shoved in his mouth, and a length of scratchy hemp was wrapped around his lips to keep the gag in place. His nose was suffused with roses.

When the tall man opened the carriage door, Patrick held his breath, but he didn't shine the light too far inside, so Grace, hidden on the long bench seat with her legs drawn up, the lap blanket thrown over her, remained unseen. They shoved the prince inside and he stumbled, then found his place on the opposite bench.

"Now be a good boy, mind your manners, and you won't be hurt," said his kidnapper.

The prince listened closely to the sounds of horses being mounted, then the soft shaking of the carriage as someone climbed to the perch to take the reins. A few moments later, they were off at somewhat of a breakneck speed, given the darkness and the state of the road.

"Patrick?" whispered Grace from beneath the blanket. "Are you quite all right?"

With the gag in his mouth, he could only make a grunt, which he hoped she would interpret in the affirmative. Grace slid from beneath her covering and moved stealthily to his side. She gasped when she felt his bound hands and the rope wrapped round his face. As quickly as she could in the dark, she awkwardly loosened and pulled down the rope covering his mouth. He spit out the handkerchief.

"We must keep up the ruse that I am the only passenger," he said quietly. "You must try to stay hidden until you see our chance to make an escape."

"Where are they taking us?" she asked.

"I've no idea. They're highwaymen, Grace, so we are likely being transported to their secret lair. Did you hear they plan to ransom me?"

"Yes," she breathed. "But we are three days from home. That means nearly a week before we know Father's reply."

Patrick smirked. "You don't think he'll pay for me?"

"Not a penny," said Grace, for she knew how terribly angry the King was that Patrick had not remarried and gotten a wife with an heir, after destroying his chances because of his run-in with Red John.

Patrick chuckled softly. "Father values continuing the family line more than anything, and as long as there's still a chance, he'll save me. And then, of course, there's you, dear Sister, worth a price far above rubies…"

He could imagine her smile in the darkness, but then her voice grew serious. "You could use your magic to set us free."

"No," he said sternly. "I don't do that anymore." His tone softened. "You mustn't worry; Father will come through for us."

Her silence at that spoke volumes.

They rode the rest of the bumpy ride in relative silence, and as the carriage seemed to slow, he told Grace to put the gag back into his mouth.

"I shall have to remember this when we get back home," Grace said, a smile in her voice as she stuffed the handkerchief in his mouth and refastened the rope.

He gave a growl of mock outrage, and Grace returned to her seat and her camouflage.

The road became considerably more treacherous as they turned off the main highway, and Grace and Patrick were jounced around so much that they knew they'd be black and blue by morning. The prince strained to see through the windows and could just make out that they were entering some structure, likely a barn. The carriage came to a halt, and their new driver disembarked. Low voices reached his ears.

"We'll have to keep him here with the carriage," said the girl, no longer masking her voice. "Rigsby, see to the horses. Come daylight, we'll work out our plan for taking our demands to the King of Maliborough."

"What do we do with him tonight?" came the voice he recognized as that of the taller man whom she'd called Rigsby.

"Kimball, get Princess Jane out of the carriage and tie him to a post."

The door was unceremoniously opened, and a lantern lit the darkness.

"Out with you now," said the thief, Kimball. Prince Patrick disembarked and was ordered to sit against a beam in the hay, the smell of horses and manure tickling his nostrils. Kimball produced more rope, and tied the prince's waist to the post, rather too tightly, in Patrick's opinion.

"Take off his gag," the woman directed. "I might need a few more answers from the royal maw. Besides, no one will hear his cries for mercy way out here."

"I've nothing to say to cowardly thieves who hide their faces," Patrick said haughtily, once Rigsby removed his muzzle.

"Oh really? Haven't you had enough of my blade?" she asked, producing her weapon from her scabbard and advancing on him menacingly. The prince merely shrugged. He found suddenly that he missed the unaffected voice he'd heard from the carriage moments before, and thought perhaps it was time to call her out.

"I'm just saying that you can stop with the pretense…my _lady_…"

Rigsby and Kimball looked at each other, then at their liege for her reaction. Much to their surprise, she reached up a hand and removed her hood. The prince was caught completely off guard by the beauty that was revealed to him. Her raven hair was long and wavy, her eyes moss green and spirited. Dimples flashed in cheeks flushed with anger and something else he couldn't quite identify. His breath caught in his throat.

"How did you know?" she had to ask. And her voice was soft and smooth, despite her discomposure.

"Small hands," he said simply, able to meet her eyes at last. "And no male thief carries a scented handkerchief."

"See to the horses," she said to her men, using that as an excuse to cover her dismay at being discovered. They hesitated, not wanting to leave her alone with so perceptive a captive, but at her pointed look, they hopped to their work. Prince Patrick was impressed with the power this petite woman had over such hardy men, and found himself thoroughly intrigued by her. Their eyes met and clashed in unspoken challenge.

"Tell me, my lady, why does so beautiful and powerful a woman need to resort to theft and kidnapping?"

She regarded him a moment, and her emotions flashed so openly across her features that Patrick felt he was reading her mind. She seemed flattered by his compliments, but debated whether she should answer him or slit his throat and be done with it. He couldn't help grinning at her obvious quandary. His smile seemed to make up her mind, and her eyes narrowed with sudden resentment.

"It's because of men like you, Your Highness," she said disdainfully. "The princes of this world who disregard the needs of their people, who deprive and burn and kill whenever it suits them. Who sit in their palaces above while their people starve and die in the villages below. Someone has to protect and provide for them…by any means possible."

Her passionate speech touched him, and he realized he was looking at a lady of honor, despite the ropes that burned into his skin.

"I'm not one of those horrible princes you mention, my lady. I'm not even from this kingdom you strive to protect. You judge me unfairly and deprive me of my liberty. What makes you any different than the rulers you claim to disdain?"

He had her there, and she flushed now from slight abashment along with her anger. Yet, when she looked at this prince, she couldn't help seeing what the money for his carriage, his horses, even his fine clothing could do for her people. She rose to her full height, her arm straightening as she pointed her sword again.

"It matters not to me who you are or where you come from. All royalty are the same—it's in your very blood."

"If you release me, perhaps I can help you."

"Ha," she scoffed. "You would say anything to escape. No, Princess Jane, I'm afraid you'll have to learn what it is to suffer, for once in your spoiled existence."

A shadow crossed his features, and his charming smile disappeared. "You know nothing of what I have suffered in my life," he said softly.

She was startled at the truth in his eyes and in his voice. "Perhaps not," she relented. "But you, sir, could have no concept of mine."

He nodded, at a stalemate, and his good humor returned.

"So, my lady, you have me at a loss. You know my name, but I fear we have not been formally introduced. Have I met the famous Robin Hood? Perhaps you go by the name of Scarlet Pimpernel, or-dare I say it-Joan of Arc? "

For the first time that he could see, her pink lips quirked a little in amusement, and another surprisingly sweet dimple appeared.

"My people call me Saint Teresa. You, Jane, may call me…_Boss_."

A/N: Still here? Thank you! Now, please tell me what you think of this beginning. I'm truly dying to know…

P.S.: I'll have this week's tag up soon, once I write it .


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow! I'm so excited at the response for the first chapter. I really didn't think so many would follow me into this crazy AU world I came up with, but boy I'm so glad you did! I'm really having fun with this! This next chapter has some necessary exposition, and I hope it doesn't get too tedious, but I wanted to better define how I've manipulated the circumstances and the characters from the show. I hope it meets with your approval. Thanks so much for choosing to follow me down another road less travelled by. And welcome to my new readers! Nice to meet you!

**Chapter 2**

Prince Patrick leaned his head against the post and closed his eyes. He had hoped that they would believe that a spoiled prince would be helpless, so that they would leave him alone. This, of course, would allow Grace to emerge from her hiding place, untie him, and they could steal back one of their horses. Unfortunately, the so-called Saint Teresa was very cautious, and the tallest member of her band had been given guard duty, while she and Kimball went off God only knew where.

"You must be Little John," said the prince, opening his eyes and staring at the man who sat on one of Grace's trunks nearby.

"No, and don't try to distract me. The boss warned me you were likely a slippery little fish."

"So that would make the other lad Friar Tuck? Perhaps Will Scarlet? Funny though, you don't seem very merry."

Rigsby couldn't help the bark of laughter at his characterizing of the short yet muscular Kimball as Friar Tuck.

"I take it back," commented Patrick with a rueful grin.

Rigsby forceably sobered his demeanor. The boss wouldn't like it if he was found sharing a joke with their captive.

"Now that's enough outa you, _Princess Jane_," Rigsby said, remembering himself. "I'll put that gag back on if you don't stifle yourself." He raised the musket from his lap and gestured toward the handkerchief and rope lying in the hay near the prince's feet. "Or I might find a better way to stifle ya."

"As you wish," said Patrick good-naturedly. But of course, his silence only lasted a minute at most. "Tell me—Rigsby is it?—what's all this about? You don't strike me as kidnappers. Thieves, obviously, but somehow taking helpless people captive seems…beneath you."

Rigsby shifted uncomfortably. No, he didn't like it one bit, but he wasn't about to contradict the boss to this man, whose bag of gold coins they'd confiscated would feed everyone in their village for a month.

"I said, shut up," he said sternly.

"What's become of my men?" asked the prince, genuinely concerned with this answer. "Did you kill them?"

He'd been haunted by the image of their driver, Ron, lying on the ground, still as death, and wondered also if Karl had managed to slip away unscathed. Perhaps even now he'd made it to Lord Craig's Castle Hartshorne.

"Unlike most men of your ilk, we kill no one…not if we can help it. Your men are safe enough, though I won't vouch for their comfort."

Patrick nodded, his hopes dashed that Karl would be bringing help. But at this point, it was enough to know they were alive; nothing he could do about rescuing them until he could rescue himself and Grace.

"Where's your boss?" he asked, changing the subject.

"None of your business."

"I'm right here, Jane," said the woman in question.

She'd opened the barn door just enough for her small frame to slip inside. Her cloak was gone and she stood before him, wearing, of all things, men's doeskin pants. Patrick's mouth went dry as he took in the sight, how the tight-fitting garment clung to her shapely legs and cupped her magnificent derrière. Her muslin tunic was loose and belted, showing off her tiny waist. She wore fine black riding boots, but they were worn and scuffed with use. She'd braided her dark hair into one single plait down her back, tied at the end with a thin strip of leather. He found he missed the wild waves he'd glimpsed earlier.

From her hip hung her sheathed sword, and a smaller hunting knife encased in its scabbard. It occurred to Prince Patrick that she was more magnificent than any of the women he saw everyday at court.

He caught her telltale blush when she noticed how his eyes had raked up and down her body, and his appreciative grin heightened her color even more.

"I told you not to talk to this man," she chided Rigsby, trying to cover how uncomfortable she was in the prince's presence. Rigsby looked sheepish, but shot Patrick an angry look.

"Go help Kimball with that other task," she ordered mysteriously. Rigsby nodded and left quickly, pleased to escape his troublesome guard duty.

"I was merely inquiring after my own men," Patrick said, oddly feeling the need to defend Rigsby.

"I'd be more worried about my own pretty neck if I were you, Princess."

"Why? I'm worth nothing to you dead."

"True," she conceded. "But I might change my mind if I grow too irritable. Your coach and horses are encouragement enough to cut my losses now."

He grinned, knowing she was bluffing. "Well, if you continue with your plan to ransom me, you'll need to have proof that I'm alive. My father is a very skeptical man."

"Another good point." She drew out her knife and advanced toward him, and Patrick felt his heart skipping a beat. What might she send as proof? A finger? An ear? The tip of his nose?

She knelt beside him in the hay, and he caught a whiff of her scent: cinnamon as if she'd been baking, combined with the outdoors and a pleasant, indefinable fragrance that was all her own. His heart began to pound for an entirely different reason as she contemplated him a moment, trying to decide what part of his anatomy would best suit her purpose.

He stared at her, how her skin, lightly tanned by days in the sun without neither hat nor parasol, seemed to glow with good health. Had he not feared she might cut one off, he would have reached up his hands to see if her cheek was as smooth as it looked.

He watched in delight as a sudden grin broke out on her face, just before she reached out and captured one of his blonde curls. She lopped it off with her knife and waved it triumphantly before him. "This'll do, Goldilocks," she said. She caught his sparkling eyes as he admired her satisfied expression.

"Lots of people have blonde hair," he said. Her face fell a little, then alighted on the golden ring he wore, stamped with the royal crest and encircled with rubies. She reached for his finger and he couldn't help cringing since she still held the knife in her other hand. She felt his nervous reaction and laughed softly, rather mischievously, he thought. Her skin was warm and soft against his, and he heard her sudden increase in breathing before she slipped the ring off his finger and she dropped his hand. He swallowed in relief and their eyes met, their faces mere inches apart. Her green eyes widened with awareness, and she backed up awkwardly, straightening.

"There will be no doubt now who I hold," she said, pocketing both his ringlet and the ring, her eyes averted.

"You're probably right," he agreed. He felt shaken, as if he'd had a sudden shock.

He watched her return her knife to its home at her waist, then look at him with sudden curiosity.

"Why are you, Prince of Maliborough, here in Hartshorne? I would think given our two kingdoms' rather cold relationship this is the last place someone like you would be."

Of course, he couldn't tell her that he was escorting his sister to marry Lord Craig. He thought quickly.

"I'm on a diplomatic mission, hoping to avoid war," he said. He kept his eyes trained on hers, trying to put as much sincerity there as he could. Her eyes narrowed, but she asked nothing more.

"My man will ride to your king come first light. Don't go anywhere," she said as an afterthought. He grinned at her little joke, and she smiled back, before abruptly catching herself and turning toward the door. And then he was alone. He cocked his head and listened, then called softly to Grace.

His sister emerged cautiously from the carriage, her bright red hair catching the dim light of the lantern.

"Quickly," he said. "We may not have much time."

She ran to his side, untying his hands, having to use her small white teeth to pull at the complicated sailor's knots. That done, she went to the back of the post and worked on the knots there. She had just begun to get a handle on the knots when there was a noise at the door.

"Go!" Patrick whispered harshly. She began to run toward the carriage, but the heel of her dainty slipper caught in the hay, and she tumbled to the floor. The prince's eyes flew to the entrance just as Rigsby sauntered in, a plate of bread and cheese in hand. He stood paralyzed a moment at the unexpected sight of a highborn lady in a white cloak, sprawled in the hay at the prince's feet. He dropped Patrick's dinner and rushed toward her.

"Stop!" he yelled as she ran behind the carriage. But Grace only stopped when she heard the hammer of the musket being cocked back.

"Grace," cried Patrick, a mixture of disappointment and fear lacing his voice.

She turned around to face the tall man who was advancing ominously upon her, gun in hand.

"What have we here?" he said roughly, but his eyes swept her lovely features with something akin to awe. She was the loveliest thing he'd ever beheld. "Been hiding in the carriage, have ya? I expect you're kin to the prince here."

"I'm Princess Grace of Maliborough," she said haughtily. "Please remove that weapon from my sight, yeoman, and I demand you release my brother."

"Brother, eh? Well, well. We've struck gold—two royals for the price of one. Wait'll the boss gets a look at you." And he grabbed her slim arm so she wouldn't try to run again.

While Rigsby was distracted with his sister, Patrick had moved his free hands behind him to see if he could finish undoing the knot that held him to the post.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Kimball from the doorway. The burly man strode to the prince and pointed his pistol at his forehead, before going behind him and re-tightening his bonds.

He looked at Grace, quickly assessing the new situation. "I'll get more rope," he said simply.

Patrick sighed in frustration, his eyes going to his sister's, their hopes for immediate escape dashed.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lady Teresa of Sacraham entered her cottage door after her latest encounter with the prince. She felt light-headed, shaky. She had never had such a strong reaction to a man before. He was too handsome, too charming by far—not the sort of qualities she expected to find in one so entitled. He seemed to see right through her, and she felt trapped by his eyes, by his smile. He made her blood sing in her veins, and the brief moments of nearness had nearly overwhelmed her senses.

She reached into her pocket and found his soft curl, and she rubbed its fine texture between her fingers. How would it feel to run her bare hands through all of that golden mane of his, to kiss those full lips? To lay down with him in the fragrant hay and—

"Daughter? Is that you?" There was a hoarse cough, and she followed the voice to the padded chair by the hearth. Teresa shook herself out of her reverie and rushed to his side. She automatically pulled up his shawl more tightly about his shoulders, squatting before him then to look up into his rheumy blue eyes.  
>"What can I do for you, Father?"<p>

He reached out a crooked hand for hers, and she held it gently.

"I don't mean to trouble you, my dear. You are such a good girl to me. Might I have some tea laced with a bit of brandywine? My throat is terribly tight tonight."

She squeezed his hand lightly and nodded. "Of course. Right away."

It was always a shock to see him like this, even though she lived with him, saw him, took care of him every day. Years before, Sir Virgil Minelli had been a trusted knight in young Queen Madeleine's court, then, as he'd become too old to sit a horse for long, she'd sent him to Sacraham to act as sheriff of the district. But everything changed when the queen was accused by parliament of mishandling her power, of negotiating with Maliborough without their knowledge. Now, she was held in Hartshorne's highest tower, and her younger cousin, Lord Craig, had assumed power until she faced trial.

With the new order at Hartshorne, came a new order in the districts, and Sir Minelli was summarily excused from duty. In his place was the newly anointed Sheriff, Lord LaRoche, a large toad of a man who ruled the district with a soft voice and an iron fist. Teresa, her father, and brothers were banished from the sheriff's manor to the simple cottage they lived in today. Teresa didn't care that they'd dropped in status—money and prestige didn't concern her—but she knew her father didn't deserve the disgrace, and she was convinced the onset of his illness had been partly due to a broken heart and feelings of deep betrayal.

The years passed and while the queen still languished in her high tower, parliament continually bickering over her fate, things began to worsen for the people of the land. Taxes were raised to fill the royal coffers to silently prepare Hartshorne for war against Maliborough, and those who could not pay faced the stocks or whipping, or hanging. When her younger brother Thomas spent three days in the stocks, Teresa could no longer bear to see another suffer for the sake of gold.

And now, she had captured a prince. She had nothing against Maliborough. So far as she knew Hartshorne was the aggressor, so it was very odd that Prince Patrick was on the road to Hartshorne castle, only lightly escorted. Teresa gave not a lick for politics, except when it benefitted or hurt her people. In this case, she knew instinctively that something was going on in the upper classes that well might turn the tide of impending war. She would bet Prince Patrick's fancy coat that it had something to do with him.

Teresa was just checking the kettle on the fire when a knock came at the door. She smiled reassuringly to her father and went to answer it. It was Kimball.

"Boss," he whispered. "Our guest list has increased by one."

"What?" she said, startled. She stepped outside with him, closing the door so she wouldn't upset her father. He had no knowledge of her activities, and she wanted to keep it that way so that he wouldn't have to lie for her if he were ever questioned.

Kimball succinctly explained the situation in the barn and Teresa had to shake her head in wonder. "I can't believe we missed her. That prince is certainly a wily one."

Kimball cocked his head a little at her tone of admiration. "Yes. What do you want us to do with her?"

She thought a moment. "Well, we can't keep them in the barn anymore. The prince was on his way to Hartshorne castle for an important meeting. If he doesn't arrive at the appointed time, Lord Craig may send men to look for them. Let's move them to the hunter's cabin, deeper in the woods. We'll have to do it tonight before you leave for Maliborough in the morning."

"Rigsby and I will see to it."

"Thank you, Kimball. Let me get my father safely to bed and I'll follow after with supplies. You'll have to ride even more quickly and carefully tomorrow," she cautioned.

"I'm up for it."

She knew his loyalty was unquestionable. He and Rigsby had served her father when he was sheriff, and they too had been displaced by the changing of the guard. They also had younger siblings and aging parents to feed.

"I'll see you and Rigsby at the cabin," she told him.

"Not to worry, Boss."

And with those heartening words, he disappeared into the darkness. Teresa put her face in her hands, taking one brief moment to let the events of this night wash over her. Things had just become extremely complicated, and fear threatened to overwhelm her. If they were caught, if the prince and princess were discovered in her custody, it would mean the hangman's noose for all of them. But one moment of doubt was all she allowed herself. With new resolve Teresa shook off her worry and did what she always did—whatever she had to do to protect her family and friends.

Even if it meant dealing with a handsome prince who seemed to have magically stepped out of her girlish fantasies.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

An hour later, Teresa gave the secret knock on the cabin door, then was quickly let in by Rigsby. She carried with her a basket filled with bedding, food, water, and clothing.

She got her first look at Princess Grace, a beautiful young woman with captivating red hair and a creamy complexion. Teresa felt instantly drab by comparison. The siblings were tied to chairs pushed in to the simple wooden table, and they both looked exhausted, the princess's brow furrowed with worry.

"Aw, Saint Teresa, you've brought us a housewarming gift," said the prince wryly.

She ignored him and focused on the princess. "It seems your brother had a little secret he was reluctant to share," she said. "Thank you for joining us."

"If you harm us, my father's men will kill you where you stand."

Teresa raised an eyebrow, then grinned at Rigsby. "Feisty one, eh?"

Rigsby grinned, but she caught the tall man's look of intense admiration of the princess, and Teresa suddenly had a feeling of deep trepidation. She'd have to have a word with him about being careful not to allow one's emotions to interfere with the business at hand. But as she glanced at the prince's charming grin, felt her heart skip a beat, she wondered who was going to remind _her_.

"Don't worry, Your Highness, you'll be treated well, so long as your father comes through with our ransom request, which, it seems, will now be doubled. And true, Jane, I did bring some gifts of a sort. You're both to put these clothes on. Should someone stumble upon this cabin, we wouldn't want them to think you're somebody important."

She dug through the basket and held up one of her older dresses. "Looks like it will be a little short on you, Princess; I'm sorry that can't be helped. I'm sure Rigsby won't go wild from a glimpse of the royal ankle."

She turned to the prince. "As for you, Jane, you may borrow some of my brother's clothing. You're of a height, so there should be no problem there. I'm afraid they're not your usual silks and satins, but we do live the simple life here in the back of beyond." She tossed the homespun garments on the table.

"We'll muddle through," he said. He wiggled his bound hands, which were tied to the arms of the chair. "You'll need to untie us if you want us to change, of course."

"Of course. One at a time. Rigsby…"

He went over to the prince and worked at the ropes, and stood before her, then took up his borrowed clothing. "Am I to have an audience?"

Teresa flushed, realizing that she'd been staring. "Uh, no. I'll wait outside."

As the door shut behind her she bided her time, fidgeting outside the door in the cool spring evening. After five minutes, she became impatient and peeped into the window, her breath catching as she beheld Prince Patrick in his smalls alone, his chest and back more muscular than she had imagined, as were his lightly furred thighs. He had the body of a horseman, perhaps even a swordsman, and not that of an idle prince. He must have felt her eyes upon him for he paused and looked right in her direction, his grin slowly breaking over his face. Caught, she moved from the window, her heart pounding in her chest at what she had seen, and the fact that he had seen her.

Rigsby opened the door to her a few minutes later, and she nearly laughed despite her embarrassment at the once proud peacock dressed in the garb of a yeoman. But then she found herself wondering how the wheat colored linen could make him look even more dashing, and somehow, more unnervingly real.

"Your turn, Princess," she said gruffly, refusing to meet Patrick's eyes.

"Which one?" asked Patrick with amusement, used to the new moniker she'd bestowed upon him.

"The ginger, not the fair-haired," she said, trying not to laugh again. Why did he have that power over her, when she had little else to laugh about these days?

Grace had merely closed her eyes as her brother had disrobed, but Teresa sent both men outside now. Teresa may be a thief, but she still respected a lady's privacy. After she untied the princess, she watched dispassionately as she began to undress, a becoming blush tingeing her alabaster cheeks. When Teresa saw that the princess obviously needed help with unlacing her stays, she moved reluctantly forward, remembering when she'd lived at court with her father, and had been forced by propriety to wear the uncomfortable undergarments. She was never able to take them off by herself.

Wordlessly, Grace allowed Teresa the intimacy of loosening the ties enough so that she might step out of the corset. She kept her back turned and hastily put on Teresa's blue muslin dress. It slipped right over her head, no fastenings required. The princess was more endowed at the top than Teresa, so the bodice fit tightly, her cleavage pressing against the square neckline. Teresa shrugged, unapologetic; it couldn't be more uncomfortable than wearing a whalebone corset.

"Thank you," said the princess softly, taking Teresa off guard.

She said nothing, oddly touched by the younger woman's humility.

"Sit in your chair again," Teresa ordered a moment later. She re-tied the princess's bonds and then opened the door to Rigsby and the prince.

When she beheld with surprise her tall partner knocked to the ground, out cold, and the prince nowhere to be seen, she gave a very unladylike curse, then plunged into the darkness after him.

A/N: Well, a cliffie of sorts, lol. I hope you don't mind. The next chapter should have a little more talk AND action, I promise. Please sign in and let me know how I'm doing. I answer all signed-in reviews!

Also, with the way this site tends to go wonky with the e-mail alerts for chapter updates sometimes, I'll start tweeting when I've posted a new chapter. You can follow me Donnamour1969. Up until now, I've mainly used Twitter to follow/stalk my favorite stars and, of course thementalistwriters, but now I see the value of reaching out to my readers here at fanfiction. Hope to see you in the twitterverse soon! I'd love to tweet with you!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks so much for your continued support of this fic! I truly am amazed at its warm reception. I am behind again on answering reviews, but I'll get to them very soon. Your enthusiasm has inspired me to write even more, so here is the next chapter, much sooner than I had anticipated…

**Chapter 3**

Teresa's first thought was that the prince wouldn't go too far away, not without his sister, and her second thought was that he would likely try to get a horse. She headed back through the woods toward the barn, knowing that he couldn't be more than a few minutes ahead of her. If she were him, she'd steal back a horse and circle back around to wait for an opportune moment to help Grace escape.

She'd been running for about a minute when she saw the prince's light clothing clearly in the moonlight. He was picking his way slowly, as if no one would be pursuing him. _Stupid prince. _ She ran another hundred yards before ducking behind a tree, her hands going to her sword. It would be child's play now to sneak up behind him and—

She heard the distinct _click _of a musket, felt the cold metal against her temple.

"Undo your belt and drop your weapons to the ground…my lady."

"What! How did you—?"

One second he'd been ahead of her, the next, he was pointing Rigsby's gun at her head. She had to have been seeing things. She turned slowly around to look at the prince, his straight, white teeth flashing in the moonlight. When she didn't do as he'd ordered, he pushed her back against the tree-not roughly, but with enough force to know this was no bluff. She'd been totally taken off guard, so she stood frozen until she felt his free hand gliding down her side to her waist, until he found the leather strings of her belt.

He was close enough that she could feel his light breath on her face, as if he'd made no exertion, as if he'd simply been waiting for her. Her hands went down to cover his, then brushed them aside to untie her own belt, while she panted from her run along with something else unfamiliar. She looked up to see his eyes on hers, and she felt unaccountably weak in the knees.

Finally, her belt with her sword and knife fell from her waist and she looked at him expectantly. She had to know how she'd ended up in this predicament. She was a child of the forest, could have moved through these woods without even the moon to guide her way. How was it possible that he'd tricked her like that?

"Would you mind telling me how you are able to seemingly be in two places at once?"

He leaned closer to her, his mouth moving to her ear. "Magic," he whispered, and she felt the word shiver along her spine.

"What?"

"No more questions. Now we'll go back to the cabin and you will help me get my sister back."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to stand in front of him. She felt the gun at her back now, compelling her to move forward.

"Lead the way, Saint Teresa," he said mockingly. Her shock and surprise suddenly wore off, and now she was just plain angry.

"When I get away from you—and I will—I'm going to punch you right in the nose."

He chuckled softly as they began to walk. "Why are you so put out with _me_? You're the one who kidnapped me, robbed me, tied me up, purloined a lock of my hair, and forced me to wear these wretched garments. If anyone deserves a good thumping, my lady, it most certainly is you."

"That is so like you royals," she countered. "Only thinking of yourself. Why do you suppose a lady such as I would stoop to kidnapping? Do you think it's because I am bored? Do you think I enjoyed doing those things to you?"

"Yes."

"Well, I didn't."

He made a noise of disbelief.

"Well, perhaps the hair…" She grinned in the darkness. They continued to walk back toward the cabin, and Teresa found she had enjoyed the verbal sparring so much that she'd almost forgotten he held a gun at her back. She felt herself sober as she remembered that important fact. She stopped suddenly and turned to face him, only to find that he'd been walking with the gun pointed at the ground. He raised it again halfheartedly. That action alone made something well up from deep inside of her. Perhaps she could appeal to his sense of decency—she saw how much he loved his sister. A man with that much caring had to have regard for those who suffered.

"If you escape," she said softly, "many in our village will starve come winter. Lord Craig is not allowing our spring planting as punishment for the many robberies of noblemen along this stretch of highway. If anyone tries it, their home will be burned, their fields destroyed. This is all my fault, and somehow I have to make it up to them. So when I saw a royal carriage, it was like the answer to my prayers. Please, Prince, show some compassion. The ransom we ask will be a pittance to you."

Patrick's head was spinning at her speech, not only because of her heartfelt words, but because of the mention of his sister's fiancé.

"What do you mean, Lord Craig? Has he not been a fair leader while the queen awaits her trial?"

"Fair? He's a tyrant. He and the sheriff have taken everything from us to fill the war coffers in preparation for war with you!"

Patrick had the innate gift of being able to detect falsehoods, and he knew that at that moment, Teresa was speaking the truth.

"There will be no war," he said quietly. "I've brought my sister to marry him, thus uniting our families and our kingdoms."

"Ha. If you have faith in that man, you are sorely misguided. Mark my words, he will take your sister for his own and put you in the tower alongside the queen. Wouldn't that be the perfect invitation for your father to go to war?"

Her words still rang true, but there was still more she had to say.

"Didn't you find it the least bit peculiar that if you were escorting such precious cargo to Lord Craig, he did not send an escort to meet you at the border? He knew what a target a royal coach would be for outlaws. Perhaps being accosted in this country might have been another way to push you and your father into war."

Patrick thought on this a moment, and it suddenly occurred to him how oblivious he had become to the affairs of his own kingdom. Since his wife and child had been murdered, he had been living in a daze, a half-life filled with little more than a desire for justice that would never come and misery at being left tragically partnerless in the world.

His own father had wanted him to bring more men, but he'd followed the council of Lord Craig, whose missive said they'd be welcomed into the kingdom of Hartshorne, that it was a safe and peaceful place with the queen out of power. How could he, who prided himself on his ability to read people, have been so mistaken? It was as if he'd been sleeping for five long years, only to be awakened again the moment this petite woman had pressed her sword to his throat. He felt it in his chest every time he looked at her. He felt…alive.

"But…why would Lord Craig want war?"

"I've been to Maliborough, Your Highness. It is rich and verdant, your hills filled with fat cattle, your fields with acres of fine grain. Your cities are thriving, your ports always busy with traders from all over the world. We here are landlocked, with more forests than fields and limited trade this far inland. He wants your country to add to his own."

What she was saying made great sense. When the queen had been in power, there had been healthy trade and friendship between the two kingdoms. He remembered visiting the queen as a boy; they'd been childhood playmates, both of them destined to become rulers one day. When Queen Madeleine had been accused of treason, he hadn't wanted to believe it. But after his family had been murdered by a trusted advisor, a mentor in so many ways, he no longer cared what was true and what was false. He no longer cared about anything, except his sister.

"I've been naïve," he said honestly. "A weakness I could once claim never to have. If what you say is true, I don't wish for my sister to be married to such a man. But we agreed to the merger; she's been promised to him since birth. My father would be furious if we reneged on that contract."

Teresa felt her heart lifting. An idea quickly formed that was her best since she had enlisted Kimball and Rigsby to help her rob from the rich. With the help of this spoiled prince, she could save them all.

"If you can find your way to trust me, I believe we can help each other," she began tentatively. "Get your father to pay your ransom and I will get you safely back to Maliborough. You can take back with you the knowledge of what is really going on here. You can fortify yourselves in preparation to defeat Lord Craig should he attack. And you will have allies here, I promise you. There are many other villages in this same dire predicament, ready to fight for their lives and their homes if only they had a hope in hell that they could succeed. You, Your Highness, could be that hope."

He looked at her, the moonlight shining in her dark hair, her body taut with barely restrained emotion. She wanted this badly, and he didn't want to believe she was lying.

"How do I know that this isn't a ruse too? That if I put down my weapon I won't find myself tied to a chair again?"

She stepped toward him until the gun he still held dug into her stomach, close enough that he could see the intensity of her eyes when she spoke. "I swear on the soul of my dead mother, I will not go back on my word. Can you also swear such an oath?"

Warmth spread through the prince's body at her nearness, at the passion of her words, and he found himself trusting her beyond his immediate understanding, beyond his reasoning. It was purely instinctual.

"I swear, on the soul of my daughter, that I will not betray you."

"Then we must shake on this bargain made," she said softly, surprised as well at how quickly things had turned around for them. She had no real cause to believe he would honor his words, but something deep inside of her, that still quiet voice she knew to always listen to, was telling her this man would protect her with his life.

He took her hand in his, and a wave of awareness shot through them both, momentarily stopping, then jolting their hearts to a gallop.

"Such a monumental deal as this deserves a much more binding seal, don't you agree?"

"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly, both frightened and excited by what she suspected he meant.

"Aw, Saint Teresa, I think you know full well."

He dropped Rigsby's stolen musket to the ground, and pulled her into his arms, his face lowering to find her soft lips with his own. But he'd barely had a taste before a low voice interrupted them.

"Unhand her," said Kimball dangerously, his pistol glinting in the dim light. Patrick raised his head and stepped away, his body trembling with reaction as well ass acute frustration.

Teresa tried to find her voice, but for a few brief moments she was at a loss. _What had just happened?_

"No," she finally managed. "Kimball…it's all right. Put down you weapon."

He didn't comply right away. "Are you sure, Boss? I saw him manhandling you." Even in the near-darkness, Patrick could feel the man's wrath.

"It wasn't what it seemed. We were striking a deal."

"With a kiss?" he said sardonically.

Teresa was grateful for the darkness that hid her blush. "You go too far, Kimball," she said warningly.

His pistol remained trained on the prince, waiting for words that would convince him this man was not up to mischief. He'd found Rigsby on the ground before the cabin mere moments before, nursing a bleeding head and a sheepish expression while he explained what had transpired. Kimball had set off at once to find them.

"What kind of deal?"

She briefly explained, but he still wasn't inclined to believe a man whose life had been threatened, who must be desperate to get away. Such a man would say anything. Kimball knew that that's what _he_ would do in that situation.

Teresa went over to him, her trusted friend, and pulled him aside. She put her hand on his, trying to get him to lower the pistol.

"He won't run," she said when he resisted. "Will you, Prince?"

It was the first test of their new accord, and their eyes met for their first time since he'd held her.

"No," he said simply.

"Listen," she whispered to Kimball, pulling him aside so they'd have some semblance of privacy. "This is a good plan. We both have much to gain by it."

"But how can we trust a man—and a prince to boot—who we've held against his will, who just left Rigsby bleeding on the ground?"

"I don't know," she said. "But I think it is our only option, except perhaps… murder."

When the three of them had struck out on this quest to aid their village, they'd done so only after they'd agreed never to kill anyone. So far, they'd abided by this agreement. She knew that Kimball would never kill anyone unless his or the lives of his friends and family were at stake. She had to convince him that this wasn't the case.

Kimball looked over at the prince, who remained standing where they'd left him. The two men stared at each other, and Kimball looked inside himself to find a semblance of the blind faith Teresa was putting in him. He might not trust a prince, but he did trust Teresa, had always done so in the past—even with his own life.

He lowered the pistol.

"Thank you," whispered Teresa.

"I want you to think on this some more, my lady. What if he has bewitched you somehow? He is charming and rich, and I'm sure the ladies at court find him handsome. And it's been a long time since you've had a man—"

"Kimball!" she gasped.

He shrugged, used to telling her what he thought. In the past, she'd relied on him for that.

"I know it seems fast, but I have always trusted my gut, and that has never steered me wrong."

Her gaze went involuntarily to the prince, whose grin flashed in the moonlight. He was definitely eavesdropping.

"I trust you, Boss, but I'm not going to stop being cautious."

"I understand, and I thank you for your concern. Tomorrow, you'll ride to Maliborough castle as planned, and deliver our request. If I am wrong about him, well, you have my permission to shoot him when you return."

She felt the prince's eyes on her when she said this, but she had to stick to the plan.

"Very well. I'll escort him to the cabin with you. But I think we should keep them under lock and key until I return. Better to be safe than to be sorry."

"I'll consider that," she said.

This was not what the cautious Kimball wanted to hear, but there was nothing to be done for it. He'd learned long ago that while Lady Teresa could take advice, ultimately she would rely on her own instincts when making decisions.

"After you, Your Highness," Kimball said, gesturing with his pistol to Prince Patrick. He tensed when he saw the prince reach down to pick up Rigsby's musket, but he saw it was only so he could give it back to Teresa.

"I don't really care for firearms," he said with an abashed smile.

Despite their low voices, Patrick had heard every word of their conversation. He could have run again, but he was painfully outnumbered, and fearful that Grace would somehow be hurt in the crossfire. Part of him was grateful that this turn of events had opened his eyes to the true situation he would have been walking into, and still another part wished more than anything that he and Teresa had not been interrupted. When she gave him a sweet smile of encouragement that all would be well, he felt he had set upon a path infinitely more dangerous than the King's Highway.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Back at the cabin, Rigbsy rose shakily to his feet, embarrassed and angry with himself that he'd allowed a cosseted prince to overtake him. He'd only taken a peek in the window to assure himself that the boss was all right alone with the princess. That brief moment of lechery was when he'd been hit on the head by a piece of firewood from the nearby stack. Thinking of it now, he supposed he'd deserved it.

The door was still open, and the princess was craning her neck with concern to try to get a glimpse behind her. Unfortunately, it was not quite the concern he might have hoped for. She must have heard him moving about in the entryway, for she called for him. He came inside and latched the door behind him; Kimball had told him to stay with the princess while they hunted down the prince.

"Oh, yeoman? Are you still there? Will your friends kill my brother?" she asked anxiously, seeing now that he'd come to his senses. "I mean, if they can catch him?"

"Oh, they'll catch him, Princess, of that you can be sure. If he resists, I can't guarantee his safety."

"You are all barbarians—accosting innocent people for your own nefarious purposes."

"Innocent?" he said, moving into the room to stand before her. "Hardly that, Princess. I was once a respected knight, working with the local sheriff, before royals like you took it all away. Now, I can barely feed my family without robbing from the likes of you."

"And does your wife know you put food on your table with ill-gotten gains?" she asked derisively.

He paused to look at her, wondering if he should take her question for more than face value. "I have no wife," he replied.

Did she look pleased at his reply? He saw that her eyes roved over his face, and she blanched despite herself when she noticed the blood oozing from his temple. He reached up a hand self-consciously, then went to the kitchen in search of a rag to staunch the bleeding.

"There's a handkerchief in the folds of my dress," she said softly, when his search yielded nothing. She nodded toward her discarded clothing.

He went back to the table and rifled through her fine garments, blushing slightly when he inadvertently touched her corset. He discovered a starched bit of embroidered cotton and brought it to his head. He met her eyes, and saw them soften, despite the fact he was soiling her personal possession.

"I thank you, Your Highness."

"He would not have hurt you had you not taken us captive," said Grace. "My brother abhors violence."

He pressed the cloth more firmly to his head. "I wouldn't have known…" he said dryly, and his heart expanded when he caught the first glimpse of the princess's smile. She shifted in her seat, and he saw her cringe a little in discomfort. He found himself rushing to her side.

"Are your bonds too tight? Are you thirsty? May I get you something to eat?"

She looked at her hands, then up into his wide blue eyes. "These ropes _are_ a little uncomfortable."

His hands went to her bindings, and he was immediately taken with the softness of her bare skin. These were hands that never had done a day's labor, had never known what it was like foraging through the dirt for roots to eat. They were as white and smooth as the petals on a lily, and just as delicate.

"Yeoman," she whispered. "My bonds…?"

He loosened them a bit and stared into her whiskey colored eyes. "The name is Wayne, Princess," he told her.

At that moment, there came the secret knock on the door, and Rigbsy moved to answer it, strangely reluctant to break contact with the princess.

He was surprised to see all three of them waiting there, none the worst for wear, the prince and the boss looking rather pleased with themselves. Prince Patrick rushed past Rigbsy and went immediately to his sister.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, and he began loosening her ropes.

"Hey," Rigsby said, moving to stop him.

Teresa blocked his advance with her arm. "Let him," she ordered.

Kimball shot his friend a wry glance.

"A lot of things can happen while you're sleeping."

A/N: So things are changing rather quickly, I know, but don't they always in fairy tales? Haven't you heard of love at first sight? Kisses by romantic strangers?

Oh, and I'm very excited about tonight's new episode, given it is about school. I'm a teacher, and so I have a special interest, and hopefully a unique perspective when it comes time to write a tag. I hope to see you here when I post it.

Thanks so much for reading and double thanks if you take the time to log in and review!


	4. Chapter 4

*Sorry about the continued problems in notifications and chapter posting for this fic. Someone is obviously out to sabotage me. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid? Am I? Well, AM I?

A/N: Now that I've finished my "Moonlight" story, I can devote a little more time to this one. Thanks so much for all the wonderful reviews!

By the way, I was so excited to see in "Something's Rotten in Redmund" that Jane can fence! Now we can all picture it in our minds when it happens in my fic, lol. Thanks, "Mentalist" writers!

**Chapter 4**

"Should we guard them," whispered Rigsby to Teresa, as they watched the prince and princess make up their own beds for probably the first time in their lives. It was actually quite amusing to see how awkward it was for them.

"Well, not guard, exactly. Keep watch. Protect. They're our guests now."

Prince Patrick looked up from his work and caught Teresa's eye. He grinned, and she blushed, remembering their interrupted kiss in the dark woods.

"I'll take first watch," she told Rigsby. "I'll need to see to my father when he wakes up at dawn, then you can take over here. Kimball should be riding for Maliborough by then." She re-buckled the belt containing her weapons that Kimball had retrieved for her before he'd left.

Her second in command had gone home to get as much sleep as he could before his long journey the next morning. With him, he would bring the ring, a lock of blonde and one of red, plus an imploring letter written by the prince's own hand.

"What if they decide to leave?" Rigsby asked, his voice growing louder in spite of himself. "What if the prince changes his mind and steals away in the night, taking a horse and riding back to Maliborough?"

These had been her thoughts earlier, but now, after one brief kiss, everything had changed. She had no real reason to trust him, but she desperately wanted to.

"I won't," said Patrick, finishing tucking in his rough woolen blanket beneath the hay-filled mattress. "Your boss here has made it very clear that my sister would be in danger should she wed Lord Craig. She is my top priority, but neither do I want our kingdoms at war. I have every reason to see this through. I know my father won't send money to Sacraham, a Hartshorne village, unless he is forced to. I want to help your village, so I'll let him think the ransom demand is true."

"Why do you want to help us?" asked Rigsby. "You know nothing of our plight. We robbed you, Your Highness. I can't believe a prince would be so…forgiving."

"My brother is a good man," defended Grace, who had stood near her own cot, listening to the conversation. "He has been through much himself and has great compassion."

Rigsby laughed. "Like what? Not enough grouse in the soup pot? The gold leaf chipping off his buttons?"

"Rigsby," Teresa chided.

She remembered he'd mentioned the soul of his daughter, and she could see, beneath the laugh lines around his eyes, a kind of haunting pain. Loss of a beloved child transcended all social classes, and her heart softened in sympathy. Then, for the first time, it occurred to her that he might have a wife, and she decided at once to distance herself from developing any feelings toward him. Easier said than done.

"Sorry," Rigsby said to Teresa, but his eyes were on the princess. "I'll be going now, but I'll see you at first light."

"Very well. Thank you. Good night, Rigsby."

"Good night," he replied, and he nodded to their newly termed guests, unable to help the lingering gaze bestowed upon Princess Grace.

Alone with the royals, Teresa went to the hearth to start a fire, for the spring evenings were chilly. She felt Prince Patrick's presence behind her as she expertly arranged the kindling, and she stiffened. He crouched beside her, picking up a small log.

She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned cautiously toward him. "Planning on knocking me out as well?"

She was rewarded with one of his easy smiles. "I am sorry that I hurt your man; I felt I had no choice."

She drew out her knife with a bit of show for his benefit, then grabbed the flint from the mantle. His eyes lit up in amusement. She was such a feisty one, his abductor, and he already felt another kind of fire burning within him.

"Well, you should tell him that," she was saying, oblivious to his wayward thoughts. "It might go a long way toward soothing his animosity toward you."

"Perhaps," he said. "I take it that you don't trust me completely either, given that you aren't going home to tuck in to your own truckle bed."

Her mouth twitched as she set steel against flint, raising the desired sparks. "It isn't that," she said, leaning forward to blow on the sticks and dried moss to get a small blaze going. Patrick watched her lips as she performed the commonplace duty, and he felt his mouth go dry.

"This forest isn't safe," she said in amusement. "Plenty of thieves and kidnappers afoot, especially at night."

"Thank heavens you're here to protect us, my lady." And despite the irony of his tone, he found his voice was rough in his throat.

He handed her the log he held, then another, until soon the fire was licking merrily at the firewood. When their hands accidentally touched, he felt the heat of her hand, how it trembled slightly. Their eyes met.

"Are these things for us?" asked Grace hopefully, from the vicinity of the basket Lisbon had brought earlier. She was holding a loaf of bread and a small crock of soft cheese. The pair at the hearth looked almost guiltily back at her, having been so wrapped up in each other they'd nearly forgotten they had an audience.

Teresa rose, brushing her hands together. "Of course," she told the princess. "You must both be very hungry."

She joined Grace at the table, bringing pewter plates and cups from the crudely hewn kitchen cupboard. In another sign of trust, she set a kitchen knife before them, which Patrick used to slice the coarse bread. The prince and princess sat at the table and ate their simple repast, while Teresa brought out a small jug of water, and one of ale.

"Won't you join us?" asked Grace politely.

"No thank you, Princess; I ate earlier with my father. Although I admit it has been a long while since I supped with royalty."

Grace hesitated, bread almost to her mouth, before looking at Teresa in surprise.

"You have before? Are you of noble blood?"

"I was…once," she said softly. "My father was the sheriff here, but he's no longer in good standing with Lord Craig."

Grace nodded, everything falling into place for her now. These had been honorable people once, courtiers by the sound of it, reduced by hunger and circumstance to rob from the rich.

"I should have realized. Your manner is not quite so rough as other peasants we have met."

Teresa's hackles rose, and Patrick put a staying hand on his sister's.

"Forgive her, my lady. She's rarely been outside the castle walls."

"Patrick—" said his sister irritably. "I merely speak the truth, and mean no offense."

Teresa glanced at the prince, and found herself instantly calmed by him. There was something so…soothing about him at times, and she found it difficult to stay angry with him. Then again, she had to admit to herself that before her own father had been sent to Sacraham, Teresa had likely been raised in very much the same way as the princess.

"No offense taken, Your Highness. I forget sometimes that there are some who have never experienced the real world. It is no more your fault than the peasants', who haven't experienced life at court."

"That's very charitable of you, Saint Teresa," said the prince. When she narrowed her eyes in search of scorn, she found none, so her features relaxed again.

"Patrick told me what you said about Lord Craig. Is it true? Is he truly so horrible?"

She briefly told her about the poverty, the hunger everyone was experiencing here in Sacraham as well as in other similar villages. It was a disgrace to overtax them, to take their crops for such selfish reasons.

"I wish that my father was the kind of man who would help," said Grace sadly. "He would see this as too much of a political risk, I'm afraid."

"I understand politics, Your Highness."

They finished their meal in silence, and Teresa vowed she would give them something more substantial the next day. It would not be quail's eggs or beefsteak, but they could certainly have sausages or a bit of ham with eggs of a common chicken.

Grace tried to stifle a yawn, the weariness of travel and the excitement of the kidnapping having taken its toll. The prince also looked tired.

"Why don't you both retire for the night? I'm sure you are very fatigued from your recent adventures."

They agreed wholeheartedly, so she extinguished the lamp and took her place in the chair before the fire, contemplating staying awake for the few more hours until morning. She heard the rustle of the mattresses as the pair settled in for the night, and she thought of her own down stuffed bed at home. She felt a little guilty about their subpar accommodations, and began entertaining the idea of inviting them to stay in her cottage with her and her father. What would he think of that, she wondered? Since her brothers had moved into homes of their own, there were two empty bedrooms, and she knew her father missed the noise and laughter that once filled the house.

And she did need to start treating the prince and princess as the guests she claimed them to be. After all, it was she who had lowered them to these unrefined accommodations.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa was awakened two hours later by the sound of someone tending to the fire. Disoriented, she reached for her hunting knife before she realized what was going on. Then she saw him, his golden hair catching the light from the fire as he squatted near the hearth, feeding it more firewood.

"Having trouble sleeping?" she whispered. The prince didn't even jump in response; it was like he knew she was awake.

"Yes," he said. "I'm not one to sleep much." He turned to look at her, then sat beside her in the matching chair, the old wood creaking beneath his weight. Teresa shifted uncomfortably; these wooden contraptions were definitely not made for sleeping.

"Oh?" she inquired. At his shuddered look, she realized what must keep him awake.

"When you vowed to keep your word, you swore on your daughter's soul…Was she very young when she died?"

He stilled, immediately uncomfortable with her personal question.

"Yes," he said. "She had eight years."

"Was it an illness of some kind?" That's what usually killed young children, when they weren't from farming families, that is.

"No." His answer was clipped, and she had the feeling that was all he wanted to say on that subject. She caught the pain there again, and while she hated that she was bringing it back to him, something compelled her to understand the real man behind the charming smile and royal bearing.

"An accident?"

He seemed annoyed now that she was pursuing this, and normally she wouldn't pry, but she felt like they were on the cusp of something, and the secret behind his daughter's death was the secret to this man.

"No."

"Was it-?"

"She was murdered," he said finally, his voice dropping so low she could barely hear him above the crackling fire. "Along with my wife. Right before my eyes."

And when she saw his anguish come completely to the fore, she regretted asking, regretted ever wanting to know his pain. What he must have gone through was too terrible for anyone to be asked to experience again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and to her surprise, felt her eyes burning with unshed tears. He saw this and his own eyes softened.

"You needn't be. It was a long time ago."

She didn't ask more, though she was wildly curious about what had happened. Who would have killed a woman and child? Being that they were part of the royal family, it was likely politically motivated. She wondered that she hadn't heard of this, but then, no one here ever travelled beyond Hartshorne's borders, and they seldom had visitors bearing news from abroad. Thus, she knew very little about the neighboring kingdoms. When she'd lived at court with her father, she'd heard of King Stiles, knew that he had an heir, but had never even known the prince's name until she'd waylaid his carriage.

"I can tell you are a sheriff's daughter," Patrick remarked a few quiet moments later. The humor had returned to his voice, and she saw his eyes sparkling with it in the flickering light.

She shrugged, feeling embarrassed now at her dogged interrogation of him. "I've always been very curious. My father used to say I'd give a cat a run for its money."

He grinned. "And you know what befalls curious cats…"

"Yes," she replied mischievously. "They catch many a rat."

He chuckled, and reached forward to stir up the fire with the iron poker.

They sat there together, gazing at the flames, which, after awhile, seemed to mesmerize them both, and they fell into a comfortable doze.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Morning found sunlight streaming through the single window of the cabin, and Rigsby's secret knock upon the door. Teresa opened her eyes, rather disoriented. She looked to her right, but the chair her companion had used was empty. She stood stiffly, her sleepy eyes roaming toward the cot where she expected the prince had finally found rest. But the bed was neatly made and completely empty.

"Jane?" she whispered, looking frantically around the one-room house as Rigsby's knock came again, louder this time. Teresa went to the door, noting in confusion that the bar was still firmly in place. How could the prince have left if the bar hadn't been disturbed? And there was only one door.

"How on earth-?"

She lifted the wooden bar and opened the door to find Rigsby, poised to knock again.

"He's gone," she said without preamble.

"What?"

"The prince. He's just…vanished." Was it magic again?

On her own cot, Grace stirred and sat up, immediately seeing what must have happened.

"Patrick likes to bathe of a morning," she said, yawning and stretching.

Rigsby took in the awakening princess, her glorious hair, now unbound, falling like red silk around her peasant's clothes. Belatedly, she remembered she was abed, a man blatantly staring at her. With a little squeak, she pulled up her blanket to her neck.

"To bathe?" said Teresa in surprise. There was no basin or tub in the cabin for such a thing, nor any means of filling it. This was a hunter's cabin, and no hunter she knew made bathing a priority.

She looked outside, and immediately realized where he might have gone.

"He's likely at the pond," she told them.

"The pond?" said Rigsby, wrinkling his nose.

"I'll go check. You stay with the princess."

"My pleasure," she heard Rigsby reply as she set foot toward her destination.

About a half-mile from the cabin was a hot spring-fed pond. Teresa enjoyed bathing in it herself, but she rarely did so, for it smelled strongly of rotten eggs. If the prince knew of such things, he could have easily followed his nose to this place.

As she approached the copse of trees that surrounded it, she could see the steam rising from the milky pool in the cold morning, and through the haze and the foliage, she saw her brother's old clothing, folded neatly on the bank.

At that moment, she heard a loud _whoop, _followed by a large splash. She gasped and quickly hid behind a tree, her hand going to her mouth as her heart thumped against her chest. Behind her, there was a naked man—not a brother or her elderly father—a strong, young man whom she'd already observed likely had a fine form beneath his clothes. She inadvertently stepped on some old undergrowth, the dead leaves crunching beneath her feet.

"Whoever is there, show yourself!" called the prince suddenly, his voice strong and challenging.

She made no sound, but stayed as still as she could manage, considering how much she was shaking inside.

"Lady Teresa? Is that you by chance?" he asked, his voice turning sly. "I'll be out in a moment…"

"Yes, it's me! Please, stay where you are" she said fearfully. "I-I was just making sure you were all right."

He laughed. "I'm fine, and this is heavenly! Maliborough Castle has a Roman bath, but one has to wait ages for it to heat. Were I you, I'd be out here once a day, at least!"

"But the smell," she replied, her back still against the tree. "How can you bear it for long?"

"The benefits far outweigh the odor, my lady. Why don't you join me?"

Her heart abruptly ceased its heavy pounding, then resumed in double-time. "That would not be at all proper, as you well know, Your Highness."

She heard the inviting splash of the water, and found herself seriously tempted. Long past a marriageable age, Teresa was no innocent miss, but her experience with men was very limited. Well, limited to exactly _one_, and that had been a colossal mistake. Engaging in a tryst with a prince—especially one as handsome and troubled as this one—seemed like an even worse idea.

"Sometimes to truly live, we must forget what is proper, as you well know, _Saint Teresa._"

"Kidnapping a stranger and bathing naked with one are two entirely different things, Jane," she countered primly. "I'll leave you to your bath. But hurry, for you are invited to my cottage in the village for breakfast."

"Will there be eggs?" he asked hopefully, and she grinned at the anticipation in his voice.

"If you wish," she said. She stepped from behind the tree to take her leave, but something compelled her to glance toward the pond—just once. She had unknowingly picked the moment when he chose to emerge from the water, the lure of fresh eggs causing him to end his morning bath.

She stopped short, admiring the form she had only recently imagined. He was not overtly muscular, but had a strong physique, lithe and used to sport. His skin was smooth and white, water falling down his body in rivulets and dripping from his curling hair as he stood on the sandy shore. He reminded her of the statue of a merman in a fountain she had admired in the gardens of Hartshorne Castle, and she felt her body go weak with sudden desire. She watched in fascination as he bent to pick up his dry tunic to dab at his wet face, his muscles stretching and flexing with the movement. It was then that he saw her.

Slowly, he lowered the cloth, a sensual smile breaking across his face. She made a strangled noise in her throat, and turning hastily, ran blindly back through the woods toward the safety of the cabin. She could have sworn she heard his soft laughter following closely at her heels.

A/N: No, this didn't really advance the plot much, just allowed the characters to get to know each other and also gave the requisite "Jane naked and wet" scene that I'm compelled to put in nearly every one of my full-length stories, lol. I hope you girls don't mind . It really is one of my biggest fantasies.

Next chapter promises more action and adventure, and a few more familiar characters, including Sir Walter of Mashburn. Please log in and review if that prospect excites (or repels) you!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: No new episode meant more time to write for this fic, so here's another chapter to end your weekend. I hope I can post it without problems this time. Follow me on Twitter and you can be updated on my update updates, lol.

I would also like to take a moment to thank all you wonderful readers! I love you guys all so much, and feel so honored that you are reading and posting about my story. That being said, I'll get to your reviews for the last chapter soon. Please sign in because there are a few that post to whom I'd love to reply, but I can't because you don't have accounts or don't log in.

But enough about me…

**Chapter 5**

Teresa avoided the prince's amused eyes as they walked through the woods to the cottage she shared with her father. He'd apparently found the rain barrel in back of the cabin, so he'd rinsed off the smell of sulphur, and was dressed once more in her brother's borrowed clothes. They had all agreed it would be best that he and the princess not wear their costly clothing while they stayed in the village. If word were to get to Sheriff LaRoche that Teresa had royalty in her home, well, the entire plan would fall apart, and she and her father might find themselves in the stocks...or worse.

But every time her eyes strayed to him, she imagined what he'd looked like, emerging from the pond, and her heart would turn over in her chest. She could feel his knowing gaze and it irritated her to no end. That, combined with Rigsby's puppy dog expression around the princess, and she found herself wondering if all of this torment would be worth the ransom.

She was happy when they reached the cottage and she was able to have something to keep occupied, namely, cooking breakfast. As promised, she cooked eggs, along with several rashers of bacon, rose hip tea, and more of the peasant bread from the night before. From her pantry she brought forth a valued crock of raspberry jam, proudly setting it before her guests (aside from her outlawry, Teresa was known far and wide for her jams).

Rigsby and his large appetite joined the prince and princess at the table, while Teresa prepared a tray to take up to her father. She would have the difficult job of informing him they had company, while at the same time lying to his face about who they really were. She might have kept them in the cabin, but her guilt at their poor accommodations had her assuming the risk of allowing them beneath their roof. She felt it was the least she could do, given how much that ransom money would help the villagers.

"This is a fine repast," commented Patrick sincerely. "The best eggs I've had in years. You must send my cooks the recipe."

She looked at him from her place at the stove. "Butter. Eggs. Fire."

Rigsby nearly choked on said eggs and Grace tried to suppress her laughter.

"Well, you must have added some sort of…_magic_…" he said, his eyes twinkling at her mischievously. She flushed and turned back to her father's tray, her mind going back to the previous night, when that same word had caused her to tremble with anticipation.

"And Grace, do try the jam. It's like heaven on my tongue." But he was looking at Teresa when he said it, not at his sister.

She chose to completely ignore his suggestive remarks, and excused herself to carry the tray up the stairs to her father's room. She felt the prince's eyes on her the entire way up.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I know that I must stay in this…_attire_, but I should like to get a few personal items from my trunks. Would that be possible?" Grace looked to Rigsby, who was finishing his meal with yet another slice of bread and jam.

"Uh—I don't know. I'll have to ask the boss, but I don't see how'd she'd mind, given you're no longer prisoners and all."

"I wouldn't mind what?" asked Teresa, from the middle of the staircase.

Grace repeated her request, and agreed it would be all right.

"But try to stay out of sight, Princess. Both of you," she said, encompassing the prince as well with her order. "The fewer questions we have to answer the better. Rigsby, if you've finished your breakfast, would you mind taking her out to the barn?"

"Yeah—sure," said Rigsby almost gleefully. Teresa shot him a look that meant no funny business, and he sobered so immediately, it was almost comical.

Teresa went to the sideboard to retrieve her own breakfast as Rigsby and the princess left through the back door to head for the barn. Teresa laughed softly.

"He's certainly smitten with my sister," Patrick said with his own amusement.

"Yes," she agreed. Having filled her plate, she hesitantly joined him at the table, where he was lingering over his tea. Then her gaze sharpened. "Don't worry about Rigsby. He's a gentleman. He served my father as well as the king once upon a time."

Patrick nodded. "He wouldn't harm her; I can see that, or I'd be accompanying them to the barn."

She dug into her breakfast, suddenly realizing how both hungry and tired she was.

"What did your father say about your new house guests?" he asked.

"He was happy that my old _friends_ could stop with us on their journey through," she said, cluing him in on the story she'd told her father.

"It pained you to lie to him, I can see."

"Yes," she said simply. She took another bite of egg. Yes, they were good, even at room temperature.

"You should always eat first, Saint Teresa," he told her perceptively. "You generally put others before yourself, don't you?"

She shrugged, swallowing her bite. "Someone has to be last."

He sipped his tea. "But you deserve better."

She wasn't going to argue with a prince who, despite his recent tragedy, was used to being first for everything. She wondered if he might be referring to himself as well, but for an entirely different reason. He was in the process of reaching out his hand to touch hers when a knock came from the front door. They both froze, but then she swallowed her bite, wiped her mouth, and got up from the table.

"Go upstairs," she whispered.

She waited a moment while he complied, and the knock came again. She drew up the latch and opened the door to find the sheriff's own hand, Sir Walter of Mashburn. He met her frowning face with a wide grin and black leather from neck to toe. She looked past him to where two more of the sheriff's men were mounted at the ready, should some poor peasant try to make a run for it.

"Lady Teresa. How are you this fine morning?"

"Sir Walter," she said evenly. "What do you want?"

"Now is that the way to greet me, after all we've meant to each other?"

She blushed, but refused to take the bait. He was a handsome, witty man, and when he'd first been assigned to Sacraham, she had resisted his charm. He had been dogged in his pursuit of her, however, and because she was lonely, she was embarrassed now to say that she'd eventually succumbed. But only once.

"This must be official business, or you wouldn't have brought your cronies with you." She inclined her head toward the heavily armed men.

He grinned, ignoring her insulting tone. He was a man used to getting what he wanted, and because she had pushed him away after their lovely interlude, he still looked on her as a challenge. She'd been the first woman to ever leave him after a tryst—he was always the one to do the leaving—and his ego still smarted just thinking about it. He wasn't going to give up until she was a permanent fixture in his bed, and once she'd fallen desperately in love with him, _he'd _be the one creeping out before daylight.

"I am sorry to say you are right, milady. Your rent is past due."

"Doesn't it grate on you, Sir Walter, to have been brought to the level of the sheriff's game retriever, albeit slightly better mannered?"

His grin widened to show rather attractive dimples. "Why, Teresa, I'm flattered that you would notice."

She scowled at him.

"Wait there. I'll get your damned money."

She attempted to shut the door in his face, but his hand and foot were faster, and he leveraged the door open easily against her smaller weight.

"I won't be falling for that trick again, milady," he said dryly, pushing his way inside. "Last time, you snuck out the back door and disappeared into the woods. No, I'll just wait here for you to find your gold. Unless…"

He shut the door behind him, leaning against it and crossing his arms until the leather squeaked.

"Unless what?" she said suspiciously. He began advancing toward her, but she stood firm, unintimidated by his towering height. He reached out a gloved hand to touch her cheek, his brown eyes glimmering persuasively.

"We could perhaps work out an arrangement. I have money enough to keep the sheriff at bay. If, that is, you chose to be a little more…welcoming."

"Well, there you are, my dear," came a voice from above. The pair by the door looked toward the staircase to see a shirtless and shoeless blonde man descending toward them, a wide smile on his face. It was difficult to discern which of them was more surprised.

"I awoke to find you gone from our bed and…oh, pardon me, my Lord." He inclined his head respectfully.

He walked casually to Teresa and rested a possessive arm around her shoulders, then kissed her cheek fondly. Teresa's face colored to the roots of her hair.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Mashburn coolly.

Teresa finally found her voice. "This is…Jane, a friend who is passing through on his way to Fairfield."

"A very _dear_ friend," he said, making the term sound salacious.

"Jane?" said Mashburn mockingly. "My sister's named Jane."

"It a sort of pet name, really," replied the prince, and Teresa noticed that while his smile remained intact, his eyes were like blue-green icicles. "Isn't it, my love?"

Patrick felt Teresa's shoulders tense beneath his arm, and he held her more tightly against his bare side, hoping she'd realize his intentions.

"Right," and her hand moved to slide affectionately over his stomach. He couldn't help the small gasp and stab of arousal her simple touch imparted, and his eyes found their sparkle again. He brought her wayward hand up to his mouth, giving her knuckles a meaningful kiss, but his eyes never left Mashburn's.

Sir Walter was silently fuming, never in a million years expecting such a turn of events. It was very tempting to drag this man out through the village by that ridiculous hair of his, but he could think of no legal cause to do so.

"Your rent, Lady Teresa," he demanded instead.

"Rent? Why, Teresa, is this your landlord?"

"No, just his henchman," she replied, to which Mashburn visibly bristled.

"Hmm. Well, how much do you require, Sir…?"

"Walter. Of Mashburn."

"Oh? Never heard of it." Patrick reached into his pocket and pulled out his purse of gold coins, which Teresa had returned to him that morning. He dropped several coins into Mashburn's open palm, and Teresa's eyes widened. That was six month's rent, at least.

"Does that satisfy?" asked the prince innocently.

Mashburn fisted his hand tightly over the gold and turned to Teresa. "Don't be late again, or I'll burn your house to the ground," he said menacingly. Abruptly, before Patrick could challenge the man, Mashburn threw open the door.

"Send my regards to the sheriff," called Teresa.

Mashburn ignored her and stalked over to his black horse, climbing into the saddle and turning the animal toward the next farm. Beside her, Patrick lifted his hand as if to wave good-bye, but suddenly, Mashburn wasn't going anywhere. His horse wouldn't budge.

"Walk on now," he urged the stallion. The beast would not comply. Mashburn dug his boots into its sides and snapped the reins, but it remained still, as if rooted to the spot. Just when the horse was in danger of abuse, Patrick raised a finger, and it reared up on its hind legs, dumping Mashburn on his leather covered ass. The animal took off at a dead run, Mashburn hollering expletives in its wake.

Teresa stifled a laugh with her hand, but Mashburn heard it, shooting the pair in the doorway a murderous glance before bullying one of his men off his horse, angrily taking his place in the saddle.

"Why are you still sitting there? Go after him!" he ordered the other rider, who promptly chased after the errant horse. Mashburn moved on to the next house, the hapless crony lumbering at a fast trot behind his master.

Teresa shut the door, and immediately disentangled herself from beneath the prince's arm.

"How dare you!" she exclaimed.

"How dare I what, my lady? Pay your rent? Or make your former lover jealous?"

He didn't see the punch coming until he felt the throbbing in his nose.

"Jesu, Teresa, what the bloody hell was that for?" His hand went to his injured nose and his voice honked comically.

"I shouldn't have to explain myself to you, _Your Highness_. My affairs are none of your—well, affair!"

She turned to leave, her heart pounding at her own audacity—hitting a prince? If they were in Maliborough, that would be a capital offense. She felt a little better that his nose wasn't bleeding, but she knew it must ache, especially given its unnatural redness. But then he grabbed her arm and turned her back to him, pulling her body roughly to his own, and all she could think of was how smooth and warm his bare skin felt beneath her hands.

"It seems to me, milady, that I just saved your ungrateful hide from the wrath of the sheriff, or perhaps an ill-advised deal with a devil."

"I can take care of myself, Jane. Now take your hands off me."

She could barely think with his face so close to hers, his tea-scented breath fanning the flames of her desire. His hands around her upper arms didn't budge.

"Don't you think it's about time someone took care of you for a change?"

"And you think you're the man to do it?" she scoffed, but her tremulous whisper cancelled out the desired effect of her words.

"I could, if you would let me."

"And what would you do, Your Highness? Take me away to your castle like in the fairy tales my mother used to tell? Those things don't happen in real-"

His mouth descended on hers, swallowing her denials, wanting her to feel the possibility between them just as strongly as he did. He hadn't felt this way since before his wife's murder, and he felt almost crazed with passion, with unfettered need for this pint sized spitfire whose words repelled but whose eyes softly beckoned. He traced the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue, teasing her until she opened for him.

Their tongues met with echoing moans, and his hands went up to hold both her cheeks as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Her small hands roamed his back, and he shivered at the touch of their fevered heat. He couldn't get enough of her sweetness, felt like he was drowning in it. But when his nose pressed more tightly against her face, he yelped involuntarily, and he reluctantly pulled away, panting with unfulfilled desire.

"I—I'm sorry," she said, her face flushed with passion. His hand went to his nose again, effectively releasing her, and she fled to the back door and out of his sight.

The prince hung his head, a small smile of wonder ghosting around his kiss-swollen lips.

"Why is that woman always running?" he muttered to himself in amusement.

"Well, why don't you run and catch her, boy," came the aged voice of Teresa's father. Apparently, he had witnessed the entire scene and stood now at the foot of the stairs, his frail hand holding tightly to the railing. "You know she wants you to. She needs someone with bullocks as big as yours to tame that wild streak of hers." But despite his gruff tone, there was truly love and admiration in his blue eyes.

Jane grinned, liking the old man immediately. "Forgive me, Sir; you have me at a disadvantage. Lord…?"

"Minelli," he supplied. "And you, young man, are the very image of your father. You may not remember me, but I used to serve your father when you were a wee lad. I would bow if I were not fearful of falling over, but I believe I am addressing His Highness, Prince Patrick, son of my old master, King Stiles."

For the first time in years, Prince Patrick of Maliborough found himself speechless.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Princess Grace peered through the crack of the slightly open barn door, drawn there by the commotion of men and horses at the cottage door. She felt Rigsby's warm body behind her as he stood there, looking through the same crack though more than a head above hers. They both chuckled at the same time when the man in black fell on his backside and the horse made his escape. As the strange men departed, Grace realized the rather inappropriate position she and the yeoman were in, and gently stepped back, bumping into his hard body in an effort to give a polite hint.

Rigsby resisted the urge to hold her there, so fine did her curves feel against him, but he moved away an honorable distance, his cheeks red with embarrassment, along with something else much less respectable.

"Who was that?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Sir Walter of Mashburn," he said with disdain. "The sheriff's hand. It's the first of the month, so he's likely here to demand the rent."

"Is it very high?" she asked curiously.

"High enough. Some end up having to give him their best goat, or a sack of vegetables or a haunch of venison as payment. He'll be heading to my door next; good thing he'll find the house empty. But he'll be back again come tomorrow morning, like the pain in an old man's arse. Oh, pardon me, Princess."

She smiled at his ungentlemanly slip, but she had nothing to say to his complaints, feeling the awkwardness of knowing that her father must send collection agents to make the rounds on a regular basis as well. She only hoped his fees were fair.

"Where are my trunks," she asked brightly, changing the subject. Rigsby went to the corner of the barn where they'd hidden the carriage. He and Kimball had spent a few hours the night before, maneuvering the vehicle into a corner and pitching the hay around and atop it, covering it so well that in the dimly lit space it was barely discernable during the day. At night, it would be nearly invisible.

Grace gasped in surprised delight when he uncovered a wheel and pulled out the trunks they'd slid beneath the carriage.

"That one is mine," she said. She went to it and opened the ornate lid, revealing stacks of folded gowns and a much smaller box inside. Her brushes, hair ornaments and other personal items were kept within, and she handed it to Rigsby to hold while she dug around for clean undergarments and a night rail, folding them tightly against her chest before he could see what they were. She moved to another trunk and found her brother's belongings, thoughtfully finding the masculine equivalent of what she had gathered. By the time she was finished, she had quite the armful.

"Here," he said, going to a horse stall, where a blanket hung neatly over the railing. "Pile your things on this and I'll carry them inside this way."

She turned up her nose at the rough blanket.

"It's newly cleaned, Princess," he said in wryly, spreading it on the hay before her.

"Very well," she said, dropping the clothing as carefully as she could. He added the two small boxes and pulled the four corners of the blanket together, forming a makeshift bindle.

"How resourceful you are, Sir Rigsby!"

He blushed at the compliment, hoisting the bundle up to throw over his shoulder. He reached out with one hand to slide open the door just wide enough for the two of them to slip through, then looked around first to insure they had no additional visitors.

"It's safe, Your Highness," he said, gesturing that she precede him. As she passed him, she tiptoed up and kissed his cheek, patting his other one lightly at the same time.

"Thank you for your help and care," she whispered. "You are truly a chivalrous young knight."

It wasn't his imagination that her warm lips lingered, or that the scent of lavender hung in the air around him as she stepped daintily away in her slightly tight borrowed gown, her shapely hips swaying as she went.

Rigsby stood as still as had Mashburn's horse, before he shook his head violently, as if that would call forth some sense back into his addled brain. He could still feel her kiss as if he'd been branded, and he grinned like a fool as he practically ran to catch up with her.

"May the Lord have mercy on my soul," he muttered to himself. But this was the kind of torment he was more than happy to endure.

A/N: Okay, so I might have exaggerated a bit about the "action and adventure" to come in this chapter (unless you think kissing and a bit of magic adventurous), but it took a little longer to tell this segment than I had expected. I'm taking my time with this fic, unless I get too impatient myself. Heck, it might even last more than—_gasp_—ten chapters!

Next up, the Red Wizard (aka: Red John) makes his first appearance, as well as Sheriff LaRoche and perhaps a few more surprise guests. I hope you find your way here again!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I'm so thrilled everyone is still into this fic! Thanks so much for all your input and encouragement. Someone suggested that I include a bit more Cho. Since I'm taking my time with this, I came up with a story for my second favorite character on the show (after Jane, of course). Believe me, it wasn't much of a chore. I hope you like this, because yes, I did steal some of the idea from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." So sue me. (No—not really. Just kidding.) I hope you enjoy the following supersized chapter…

**Chapter 6**

Kimball rode through the day and into the evening, only stopping briefly to rest, to relieve himself, and to eat one of the meat pasties his mother had packed for him. He was tired from the mostly sleepless night before, and he knew he should find a place soon to catch a few hours of sleep. He glanced up at the darkening sky, at the clouds that appeared so low and heavy they seemed ready to release their moisture at any moment.

As he rode the endless, monotonous miles, Kimball's mind kept returning to how quickly events had changed back at home. One moment they were holding a couple of royals for ransom, the next they were treating them as guests of honor. He trusted Teresa though. She had more sense than most men he knew, and he admired her courage and her desire to help the village. Kimball had respectfully refused to remain in the King's service after Minelli was ousted, even though he'd been promised the position of Sheriff's Hand. LaRoche was just too harsh and unfair with the people of the village, and Kimball couldn't bear to be part of it. He could not support what the law was doing, so he easily slipped into the role of beneficent outlaw.

As he thought of these things—the past, the present, the future—the first raindrops began to fall. Seconds later, the rain became a deluge, instantly soaking Kimball to the skin, but he rode on, his desire to complete his journey propelling him ever forward. He knew there was another village ahead a few miles, and he was determined to make it there to find an inn with hot food and a warm bed.

Lightening lit the sky and thunder shook the ground beneath him. The horse shied at every roar and crackle, but he was a good horse, and continued faithfully at an even trot. From nowhere came a mighty _crack _and a tree just ahead of him split nearly down the middle, briefly catching fire before the heavy rain extinguished it. The horse, even more startled than its rider, reared up suddenly, whinnying fearfully, and Kimball fought valiantly to stay in the saddle.

"Easy, Luther," he said, leaning forward to the horse's ear and patting it's long, wet neck consolingly. Luther became calmer at once, and they rode on into the darkening twilight. The dirt road became a river of mud, and the horse worked hard to control its footing. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see, with the darkness and the blinding sheets of rain, and after the lightning mishap, Kimball was hesitant to take shelter beneath the trees. He slowed the horse and squinted into the darkness.

Just ahead, he thought he could make out a bridge, and he could also hear the roaring of water even above the torrential downpour. One moment the ground was firmly beneath them, the next, Kimball felt it crumbling below the horse's hooves. Something—a log, the rushing current of the swollen stream—had caught a pylon of the rickety old bridge, tearing it away from the bank. The horse had barely set foot on the wooden structure when suddenly its hind legs fell back into nothingness. It struggled to gain purchase on the slippery planks, while Kimball held on to Luther for dear life.

Down went horse and rider into the rising water below, both crying out in abject terror as they fell.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kimball awoke to a feeling of such warm and security that he thought at first he had died. His mind struggled up through the darkness until the soft sounds of women's voices carried him back into the light.

"He's had quite the bump on the head, poor lad," said one.

"God was watching over him, that's for certain," said another.

"It was the will of God that he was found," whispered a third.

"It would have been a shame for such a fine specimen of a man to have been killed in the storm."

At this, Kimball's eyes opened slowly, but things looked blurry and unfamiliar, and his head pounded like a drum. He began to make out a lady in a red wimple and veil, her pale skin faintly freckled, her eyes blue and intelligent.

"Where…where am I? Where is Luther?"

"You, Sir Knight, are in the abbey of the Sisters of the Sacred Eye. I am Sister Kristina, and this is Sister Rebecca." Another lady in a red nun's habit came into view, smiling sympathetically at him. "In the chair you will find Sister Rosalind." At this introduction, the woman rose from her place in the corner, where she had been knitting, her eyes pale blue and sightless as she felt her way to the bed to touch Kimball's hand consolingly.

"And this," continued Sister Kristina, her voice taking on a tone of faint disapproval. "This is Summer."

Kimball once again had the feeling, upon seeing the young woman's face, that perhaps he had entered Heaven after all. She wore the white wimple and veil of a novice, and peeping from beneath it was a shock of pale blonde hair. Large brown eyes, full of much too much mischief for a nun, sparkled down at him. He would bet his life she was the one who'd made the inappropriate comment about his physique. Then, when she spoke to him, her hand on his bare arm, he was sure of it.

"Are you well, Sir Knight?" she asked in faint amusement. "Or did the blow to the head addle your brains?"

"Summer!" Sister Rebecca chided at her too-familiar tone. "That will be all from you."

Her face immediately sobered, but the light in her eyes remained. Despite his pain and disorientation, Kimball felt his lips twitch with a rare smile.

"Yes, Sister," she said obediently, but snuck Kimball a quick wink.

"What is your name, Sir Knight?"

"Kimball…of Sacraham, Sister," he croaked in a voice that sounded nothing like his own. "Luther…?" he asked again.

"I'm sorry, Sir Kimball, but no one else was found. A villager discovered you on the bank of the stream near his home. He brought you here for us to care for you. Do you remember how you might have come to be there?"

"Luther is my horse," he said sadly, fearing the worst for his faithful beast. "We fell from the bridge when it broke away from the shore. I remember nothing after that."

"You must have hit your head on the rocks," said Sister Rebecca. "You have a very nasty cut on the back of it."

"You might have drowned if not for God's grace," said Sister Rosalind.

"Thank you for your help," said Kimball, and he tried gingerly to sit up. "But I must move on—"

"Oh, no you don't," proclaimed Summer, and he felt her warm hands on his bare chest, pushing him gently but firmly back into the linen covered down. "For one thing, you apparently lost your horse, for another, it is still storming to beat Saint Paul. And even if you had a horse, you'd probably grow dizzy and fall from it again. 'Twould be a shame to further mar that beautiful head of yours."

Sister Kristina gave her a look of pure rebuke. "Go get the man some broth, Summer" she ordered tightly. The girl gave Kimball an amused grin and turned to leave. Unaccountably, Kimball found he missed her presence immediately.

"Try to rest, Sir Kimball," said Rebecca. "Things will look up in the morning. We'll leave Sister Rosalind here to sit with you. God be with you." The two nuns left quietly through the door.

Resigned to his current fate, Kimball relaxed into the pillow again, trying to console himself with the idea that he had planned to stop anyway. He grieved for Luther, however, and hoped he would be able to find a new horse in the morning so he could continue on with his journey to Maliborough. Unfortunately, the letter from Prince Patrick and the clippings of the royal hair had been stowed carefully in Luther's saddlebags, so he would have to offer some other proof to King Stiles. Kimball had always been good at getting people to believe him, so he had full confidence he could convince the king that they were indeed holding the prince and princess captive. Whether that was enough to exact a ransom payment, he did not know. He only hoped he wouldn't land himself in a dark dungeon in the bottom of Maliborough Castle.

He glanced at Sister Rosalind, who had returned to her chair and taken up her task again. The soft clicking of her needles began to lull him back to sleep. He had no idea how much time had passed when the door to the sparsely furnished room opened again, and in came Summer, a mug and spoon in hand. She set them on the bedside table and moved to help him sit in a better position to eat.

He was captivated by her beauty, aroused by her fresh scent and impish smile. His eyes alighted on the wooden crucifix that hung from her delicate neck between the soft mounds of her breasts. Carved at the cross's center was a small eye, tiny rays emanating from it as if it were the sun itself. Kimball felt an immediate jolt of guilt. This was a woman of faith, soon to be married to God. He had no right to feel the sharp thrill of desire at her every touch. But when she sat on the edge of his bed and took up the cup and spoon, all thoughts of piety fled his enraptured brain.

"Open up," she crooned, as if to an infant.

He realized he was hungry, but he felt nauseous, likely due to his head wound. He turned his face aside.

"I can't," he said reluctantly, for the idea of her feeding him was strangely erotic.

"Come now, Kimball, be a good boy and eat this delicious broth Sister Rebecca made for you." Her lips quirked as if from some private joke.

He caught her eye, feeling an answering smile beginning. Despite his nausea, he opened his mouth. The broth she poured from her spoon was truly vile. He coughed and sputtered, causing his head to pound in protest.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I should have warned you. This isn't just broth; it's also medicine for your pain. It's for your own good, I'm afraid."

"I'd rather have a headache," he said, grimacing.

"I hate to see you in pain, Sir Knight. Please? For me?"

Warm brown eyes held him in thrall, and Kimball found himself opening his mouth to again swallow the horrible concoction.

"Where were you heading on such a night as this?" she asked, trying to distract him from the taste with conversation.

He hesitated, wondering if he could trust her. He knew he was just over the border of Maliborough, and he couldn't be sure where her loyalties lay. He certainly couldn't tell her the truth, no matter how brown her eyes were.

"I have urgent business at Maliborough Castle," he said.

"Aww, I thought you were a man of importance."

He chose not to comment on that remark, but swallowed more of the wretched broth. A nun that Kimball hadn't seen before entered the room then, avoiding his eyes and looking straight to Sister Rosalind.

"Sister Rosalind, it's time for Compline. Summer, you're to say your evening prayers in here while you sit with our patient."

"Yes, Sister," she replied. Sister Rosalind rose, setting her knitting in her seat and finding the wooden cane that helped her feel her way out of the room.

"Thank God you're here," Summer said when the others were gone. "If I have to kneel on the floor for another prayer, I think I'll scream."

He looked at her around the spoon in his mouth. He swallowed and gave her a rare look of surprise, to which she grinned, her pert nose crinkling.

"Sorry, Kimball. I fear obedience is going to be my hardest vow to keep."

"If you hate it so much, why are you trying to become a nun?"

She dropped the spoon into the cup and returned it to the table. "I have no other choice," she said softly. "No one else would take me in." He raised a curious eyebrow.

"I was born in a brothel, you see, raised to be a harlot like my mother. When she died last year, there was no one left to protect me, to stop me from being…beaten. So, I left about six months ago, and the Sisters here took me in if I promised to reform my evil ways."

"And have you?" he asked, the medicine loosening his tongue. He was beginning to feel overwhelmingly sleepy. She cocked her head to look at him, and despite his daze, he truly wanted to know her answer.

"That remains to be seen, Sir Knight." She smiled at him, and he didn't think it was the medicine that made him believe her smile was somehow inviting.

As he felt himself drifting off, he saw her leaning closer to him, blocking out the candlelight before he felt her soft lips on his forehead.

"Good night, Kimball," she whispered, then her voice became ironic. "I'll be praying for you…"

And then he remembered nothing more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Prince Patrick was bored out of his mind. He'd beaten Grace four times in chess, whipped her soundly at draughts, and had unfortunately already read every book in Teresa's small library. Rigsby had claimed he had chores to do at home, leaving them with a warning to stay inside the cottage, and Sir Minelli had gone back upstairs for his morning nap. This left him and Grace decidedly at loose ends, so after he'd exhausted all the obvious amusements, he made himself another cup of tea and took it to the long settee before the fireplace. Grace had found a stack of mending on a table and had set to work darning socks.

It took everything in him not to run after Teresa. She hadn't returned since their kiss, and, despite Sir Minelli's encouragement, Patrick hadn't pursued her. She was like a skittish colt, and the last thing that would bring her closer would be to chase her. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about how sweet her lips had been beneath his, how the taste had been so wonderfully intoxicating he wanted to stay drunk forever. He closed his eyes and sighed, stretching out on the well-worn leather.

"I saw what you did, Patrick," said her sister from the chair near the window. "With the horse and that rider."

Patrick grinned to himself, remembering the sight of Mashburn, his arse in the dirt. "I don't know what you mean, Grace."

She gave an indelicate snort. "You said you weren't doing magic anymore, but you used to do that very same trick with the young squires who tried to impress me showing off on the jousting field."

He hated to lie to his sister, so he chose his words carefully. "It just seemed like a good idea at the time. The man was harassing Lady Teresa. I'm not going back to wizardry, though, Sister, so don't worry yourself. It was just that once."

He heard her slight _humph_ of disbelief."I don't believe you. But it's really no matter to me, you know. I miss the wonderful tricks you used to do. You could always make me laugh like no other. Since we were brought here, I've seen you smile more often than in all the time since Angela and Charlotte…Could it have something to do with the lovely Lady Teresa?"

"Of course not," he lied smoothly.

"Liar," she countered, and he grinned.

"Well, I could say the same for you, Grace. The strapping Sir Rigsby seems to have caught your eye."

"That would be an impossible situation, and you know it," she said softly. "Even if I do get out of marrying Lord Craig, there's no way Father would approve my marrying a lowly yeoman, and a former knight of his enemy to boot. It's pointless to even allow myself to develop certain…feelings."

Patrick opened his eyes and looked intently at his sister. "Mark me, Grace, while I have a breath within me, I'll not allow you to marry that monster. As for Rigsby, if you should develop a certain tendre for him, I'll move Heaven and Earth to see you two are happily wed. I married for love; no reason you should not."

She felt her eyes water at her brother's passionate speech.

"Thank you, Patrick," she said. He got up from the settee and went over to her, kissing her atop her bright red head.

"I mean it, Grace. You are all that I have left in the world that means anything to me. I won't sell you off to the highest bidder." He brightened, hating to trouble her with his emotional outbursts. "But now, I must get out of this infernal cottage before I lose my bloody mind."

"But we're supposed to stay out of sight," she reminded him.

"I'll be very sneaky. I'm just going to the barn. There's something I need from my trunk anyway."

"Well, be careful. Don't ruin this for them. Or, for us."

"You worry too much, Sister dear."

And then he slipped out of the back door.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick admired the ingenuity of how his captors had hidden their carriage. It only took him a minute to locate it, but he imagined someone who gave just a cursory search would miss it entirely. He found and pulled from beneath it the trunk he was looking for. Inside, he opened a smaller, flat box to see his shiny fencing swords, and he grinned, lifting one from its blue velvet nest. It was perfectly balanced, designed especially for him, the hilt encrusted with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. He'd never seen its equal, and he found he'd missed the exercise wielding it against a worthy opponent brought. It was one of the few activities that he still enjoyed, mainly because it allowed him to empty his mind of all his troubling and depressing thoughts and focus only on the rhythm of the duel.

He stood and went through his normal warm up routine, stabbing at haystacks as if they were foes, lunging and parrying at invisible partners with expert skill. Just as he was working up a healthy sweat, he heard the telltale sound of sword slipping from a scabbard. He spun in a flash, only to be confronted with Saint Teresa herself, drawn and ready.

They regarded each other, all the heat, all the emotion of the last two days settling in their stances, their weapons, their eyes. A slow smile spread across her face, and in Patrick's mind, her dimples became her second weapon.

"En garde, Your Highness."

He advanced toward her, wiping the sweat from his brow on one sleeve, determination along with the anticipation of the dance lighting his face. He inclined his head in polite salute, and assumed the beginning stance-feet apart, right foot forward, left hand on hip, sword at ready-his smile matching hers in quiet intensity.

"En garde, milady."

To his immense delight, she didn't seem to be running now…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_**Several Hours Earlier…**_

Lord Craig of Hartshorne sat on his borrowed throne, tapping his foot impatiently. His bride should have arrived by now, and he was anxious to get on with the plan. She was the key to her kingdom, a way to build a new trust between Maliborough and Hartshorne before he moved in and took over the castle right under King Stiles's nose.

"Patience, My Lord," came the deceptively soft voice of the wizard. Red John emerged from the shadows of Hartshorne's Great Hall to stand by the future king of Hartshorne and Maliborough. "All things will come in their due time."

Craig felt a chill as he looked at the tall man, completely clad in red robes, his coal black hair and eyes a marked contrast. _Like blood and death_, thought Craig.

Right before Queen Madeleine had been arrested, the wizard had appeared to him at his father's manor house.

"You could be ruler of two kingdoms," he had told him, much to the young man's disbelief. "With my help, of course."

But a condition of the wizard's help was that no one must ever know Craig was receiving it. His heart longing for power and feeling denied his birthright, Craig had quickly agreed.

And that was how it had begun. As if by magic, very soon Lord Craig was ensconced in the queen's vacated spot, and a nearly forgotten contract with King Stiles of Maliborough had been enacted. All of it seemed to have fallen into place by chance, but Craig knew better, though not the specifics of how. Frankly, he didn't want to know, but Red John was at the very heart of it, he was sure.

"I think something has gone awry," Craig said now, looking at the wizard but avoiding looking directly into his eyes. When Craig had made the mistake once of making direct eye contact with Red John, he'd felt such a thrill of evil that he had to look away. It had felt as dangerous as staring into the sun.

"Don't fear, my boy. I have eyes and ears everywhere. If something has delayed the princess, I will know."

As if on cue, a raven appeared at the stone windowsill. Red John beckoned with a faint nod, and the bird flew inside, landing gently on his shoulder. The crow croaked unintelligibly a few times, and Red John's eyes widened.

"It seems you had cause to feel misgivings, my Lord. Your bride has been kidnapped, and a man has been sent to collect her ransom from King Stiles, that old bastard. Where is she, Dumar, my pet?"

He looked deeply into the bird's eyes, and Craig watched the exchange with a mixture of horror and awe. The raven squawked again, and Red John nodded in understanding.

"You will find the princess and her whelp of a brother in Sacraham."

"Her brother?" said Craig. "You killed his wife and child, didn't you? I heard all about that—"

The wizard rounded on him, the crow flapping its wings at the sudden movement.

"What you heard was an unfortunate rumor," he said evenly. "Yes, I was present during their deaths, but how could I have killed them—I didn't even touch them."

Craig looked at him in disbelief, remembering the tale that had made it all the way to Hartshorne Castle. The prince's family had lain in a pool of their own blood in the throne room, every drop of it drained from their bodies. When Red John had disappeared immediately afterwards, it was of course assumed the wizard had cast a death spell.

"Then why did you leave Maliborough so quickly?"

Red John's smile lacked humor, and he waved his hand dismissively. "Too many wizards spoil the broth, you might say."

The wizard's excuse did not seem genuine, but Lord Craig was afraid to contradict him.

"You mean Prince Patrick. I heard he was quite skilled in wizardry."

The wizard's eyes grew even colder, and Craig forced himself not to shiver as the temperature seemed to drop in the room by several degrees.

"Not as skilled as I, boy, never forget that. Now, what's to be done about your captive bride, hmm? I daresay I have a plan. It involves the sheriff of that little district, a man I helped you handpick, if you recall."

Lord Craig gulped. Yes, he remembered the toad of a man with the strange eyes that he'd sent to replace the more popular Sheriff Minelli. LaRoche, if memory served.

"But what of their man sent to obtain a ransom?" asked Craig. "This could make King Stiles reluctant to part with his daughter. He might think we had something to do with her kidnapping. It's much too soon yet to stir up a battle between our kingdoms. Our armies aren't nearly ready…"

"I'll deal with that, my Lord," said Red John casually. He raised his hand, and from nowhere, a strip of bloody meat appeared between his fingers. He promptly presented the morsel to the black scavenger bird on his shoulder. It gulped it down, and Red John smiled almost lovingly. "Good bird. Now, get back to work." And the raven flew with a loud cry back out of the window.

"I fear the ransom rider will have some unfortunate mishap that will prevent him from reaching the King." Of course, he didn't sound sorry at all.

"What will you do?" asked Lord Craig, oddly fearful for the life of the unknown rider.

"Patience," repeated the Red Wizard. "All things will come in their due time."

"But—" began Craig, rising to his feet. To his utter amazement, however, the wizard had vanished.

Lord Craig sat heavily back on Queen Madeleine's throne. Despite all his new-found power, why was it that he felt he had no real control? And why was it that after every meeting with Red John, he felt like he'd been in the presence of the devil himself?

A/N: Yes, a couple of cliffies, of sorts. But I want you to keep reading, so yes, I inserted that old blatant plot device. (And don't worry, the revelation about Minelli will come up again soon, I promise.) I have plenty of empty hours without new episodes, so I assure you there is more to come. Please sign in and let me know if you're still with me. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Yes, another chapter so soon! This is my second since Friday, so if you are behind, please go back to chapter 6. (I'll get to those reviews soon, too.) I must warn also that this chapter has some heavy T, verging on M bits, just so you know. Now, that duel I promised, along with a few more surprises…

**Chapter 7**

The two duelists faced each other, swords at ready, sizing one another up.

"So," began Teresa, "Apparently Princess Jane doesn't just sit on a throne and eat sweetmeats all day. Or is the flashy sword just for show?"

"I'll let you be the judge of that, Saint Teresa."

Without warning, the prince lunged forward, their blades clinking together as she instinctively parried his advance. They began by gently playing at each other, trying to gauge the other's weaknesses and strengths. They circled one another, eyes locked in determination and amusement, as they attacked and feinted in an age-old battle that went far beyond the movements of their weapons.

"You're very good…for a woman," he said slyly, knowing this would bring out a spirited response.

He was rewarded with a particularly bold attack, and he chuckled at her vehemence, ending with a circular parry that knocked her sword away. She disengaged, her chest heaving in a very distracting way.

"And you're very good, Your Highness, for a spoiled prince who'd even have someone use the privy for him, if he could."

He raised an eyebrow, annoyed with that unfounded characterization, even though he knew she was just baiting him as he had her. But he willingly took the bait and lunged forward anyway, and they both picked up their games, moving forward and back in a duel that was suddenly taking on highly sensual parallels.

At one point, they advanced at the same time, their panting bodies crashing together over their crossed blades. Patrick realized that while he could beat her in strength, she was certainly his equal in finesse.

"How do you foresee this ending, milady?" he asked softly, feeling the sweet puffs of her breath against his face. "Do you plan to draw blood…again?"

Her eyes went to the small scabbed over cut on his neck where she'd nicked him the night she'd waylaid him on the highway. She cringed a little at the memory, guilt suffusing her that she'd hurt him. Confused green eyes rose to meet his again, and he had his answer. He dropped his sword and pulled her against him, her blade still between them as he ravaged her mouth with all the pent-up passion that had built with their duel. Then he heard the faint thud as she withdrew her sword and dropped it in the hay, and he smiled against her mouth, knowing that with her surrender, he had ultimately won this battle.

Her arms went round him as their lips fused together, tongues mating wildly, as his fingers began loosening the braided plait of her hair. When the waving tresses were finally freed, he fisted the silken locks in his hand, pulling her head back as his mouth drifted down her neck. His other hand moved to her belt and he hastily pulled her tunic from it to allow its advance upward to rest just below her breast.

She gasped against his mouth at such liberties, but Patrick was a man enflamed, years without a woman's touch making him almost crazed with his lust for her. Her hands went to the back of his curling hair and she shuddered against him, her breath coming so fast she began to see stars.

"Jane," she said on a tremulous sigh.

This was nothing like the slow, gentle passion that had come with Sir Walter's skilled seduction. She had felt tense and fearful with him, but to his credit, he had been gentle and saw efficiently to her needs before finding his own release in her arms. Afterward, she had felt rather bereft and awkward, and she'd left him sleeping in his bed. She'd dressed hurriedly, then snuck back home, ironically like a thief in the night. Something had simply been missing between them that she couldn't quite place her finger on, though she knew it was through no fault of his. Now, kissing the prince, feeling his taught body against hers, she finally understood what it was.

Patrick kissed his way down to her smooth stomach, whose warm, bare skin he'd exposed with his hands. He dropped to his knees, burying his face there, his hands gently caressing her breasts. He circled her navel with his tongue while she squirmed and panted above him. He looked up and met her dazed green eyes with a beatific smile, before taking her hands and pulling her down with him in the hay.

It took only moments to divest one another of their clothing, and when bare skin met bare skin, Patrick hovered over her, paused in his movements to look into her eyes.

"Are you certain?" he asked. "This may seem soon for us, but I've been waiting for you for five years…"

She reached up with trembling fingers to brush a damp golden curl from his eyes.

"I'm certain," she whispered. "I want this—want you—more than any man I have ever known."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "You don't know how happy I am to hear that." With a grateful smile, he lowered his lips back to hers. His hands went again to her breasts, and his mouth soon followed, as she turned her head helplessly from side to side on the new hay. His fingers drifted lower, instinctively finding the place where she needed him most. Mere seconds passed before she cried out in ecstasy while he soothed her with tender words and light kisses.

She'd barely recovered before he reached down to bend her knees, undulating his body as he joined swiftly with hers. Her back arched as his hands went down to steady her hips, holding her in just the right place so that she gasped with each thrust. With Sir Walter, she had barely moved at this point, lying still to let him do what he might, but Patrick wanted her full participation. He murmured encouragement, and she began rising to meet him. When he reached down to wrap her legs around his waist, their pace quickened and he groaned aloud as she pulled him more deeply inside.

Teresa felt a wave of heat flushing her body as she watched his face contort in pleasure. They climbed to the pinnacle together, moaning and shaking until they had both gone completely numb, both seeing bursts of light behind their eyelids. He barely caught himself from landing hard on her as he fell forward, completely drained.

"Teresa," he breathed into her neck. She held him closer, feeling her eyes watering with unshed tears. She knew this was ill advised, perhaps even a greater mistake than the one she'd made with Sir Walter. With Patrick, she had felt the earth move, just like the troubadours extolled, felt something tug at her heart in ways that seemed too good to last.

"So…I've bedded a prince," she said in wonder, staring up at the distant rafters. He heard the heavy dose of irony in her voice.

She felt his body shake with silent laughter, and he moved his head so he could look into her eyes.

"_Hayed_ a prince, to be more accurate," he replied, glancing in amusement at their surroundings. "And I've tupped an outlaw. What will all the courtiers think?" He teased, pulling a bit of straw from her hair.

"You don't find this to be an impossible situation? You being who you are and my being, well, me."

He kissed her nose indulgently. "You will find that with me, my sweet, nothing is impossible."

"Oh, really," she said, looking fondly into his sparkling eyes. "Because of your magical gifts, you mean?"

She was surprised when the light suddenly left his eyes. Patrick looked away so she could not see the brief flash of pain there. The incongruous talk of magic brought his thoughts unerringly to his murdered family, and he struggled now to put them out of his mind. He'd finally found someone he wanted to try to forget with—had done so for a few precious moments-and he had to learn that if he were going to move on with his life, he would have to stop blaming himself for what Red John had done. The last two days, he had been using his magic a little, and the world had not ended. No one had died. Maybe it was time he stopped punishing himself.

"You regret this now, don't you?" she said, the tears threatening now for an entirely different reason.

"No," he said, his mouth fitting briefly to her swollen lips. "On the contrary. But right now, I want to forget everything but you, and what a sound thrashing I gave you with my fancy sword." His sensuous lips formed their familiar smile.

She eyed him suspiciously, not believing his sudden change from sadness to mockery for a minute. But she would give him a pass, because she didn't want to ruin what little time she suspected they had. Before he knew what was happening, she'd rolled them both until she had him on his back, pressing his body firmly into the hay.

"If memory serves, Jane, you were the one to drop his weapon first."

"Is that a disparagement upon my manhood," he asked dryly.

"Not at all, Your Highness. Your _fancy sword_ seems to be very good at giving sound thrashings."

And then she pressed her lower body against his, leaning forward so her breasts were pushed against his chest. Her hair fell like a curtain around both their faces as she smiled down at him, boldly moving against his rapidly hardening body. He moaned despite himself and she grinned at her newfound confidence.

"What a wicked mouth you have, _Saint_ Teresa."

He moved his hips up against her, and it was her turn to moan as he hit just the right spot.

"Just my mouth, is it?" she asked with a smirk, as she settled herself atop him.

His graphic rejoinder was swallowed by the lady's very wicked mouth.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You are the Princess Grace," said Sir Minelli as he made his way shakily from the stairs to the kitchen. Grace rose and rushed to help him, lending her arm for him to lean on.

"Yes, my Lord. And you must be Lady Teresa's father. It is a pleasure to meet you sir, and so kind of you to allow us to stay in your home." She failed to mention that they'd originally had no choice in the matter.

The old man smiled, patting her arm gratefully as she led him to the table and pulled out a chair.

"You are very welcome, Your Highness. But has you brother mentioned I used to serve your father? That was well before you were born, however."

"Why, no. He left out that part. May I ask why you left us?" She went to the stove to put on water for tea, pleased that she could at least perform this utilitarian task.

"When my wife found she was with child," Minelli continued, "she wanted to return to her homeland to be nearer her family. On your father's recommendation, I found a new position at Hartshorne Castle. This was back when the kingdoms were on better terms, you know. Later I was sent to Sacraham as sheriff, until Queen Madeleine was arrested, that is."

He didn't even try to hide his bitterness at his last words. She wanted to ask him about Lord Craig, but the topic seemed to be overly upsetting to him, so she changed it. They spoke of the weather, how his bones told him it felt like rain, of raising his children without a wife, and of his daughter, who was more of a son to him than his actual sons.

She laughed at his stories as they sipped their tea and twilight settled over the land. Still, there was no sign of her brother or Teresa. Grace began to feel worried.

"I wonder where they could be?" she mused for the second time.

"I wouldn't worry," said Sir Minelli, a knowing twinkle in his old blue eyes.

At first, Grace wondered what he could mean, then she flushed as she realized the coincidence of them both being gone at the same time.

"Oh," she said softly, and Minelli nodded and gave her a knowing smile.

"I suppose I should fix us some supper then," she said, wondering how on earth to begin such a task. There had never been a need for her to learn to cook, and she would have been firmly denied access to the palace kitchens anyway.

"I've been craving a cold supper, Your Highness. Bread and cheese would just hit the spot for me." She saw in his kind eyes that he had an inkling of what she must be feeling, and she smiled gratefully.

"I certainly could fetch that for you, Sir."

While she went to the larder, a loud pounding was visited upon the door.

"Open up, in the name of the law!"

Minelli made no move toward the door. He would simply ignore it and they would go away eventually. They couldn't get blood from a turnip, and he knew the rent was past due, despite Teresa's attempts to hide the truth of their situation. He blithely sipped his tea.

The pounding came again. "Open this door or we will break it down!"

Grace emerged from the larder, looking from the door to the old man. "I will answer it," she told him. "No one will recognize me. I'll just tell them Lady Teresa is not here. No sense ruining a perfectly good door."

"Bah, don't bother. They're more bark than bite any—"

The next blow came from the unmistakable sound of a battering ram. Grace recoiled in fear, uncertain of what she should do. She would run to find her brother, but she didn't want to leave Sir Minelli alone. Making her decision, she moved to let them in, narrowly avoiding the heavy door falling inward, three knights following inside, battering ram in hand.

Grace recognized the next person who entered as the man in black her brother had made fall from his horse. Patrick was an excellent judge of character, and she immediately decided to hate this man.

"Sir Minelli, you are hearby under arrest for kidnapping and holding the bride of the realm against her will."

"No!" cried Grace, finally finding her courage. "I am not here against my will."

Mashburn's eyes focused on the beautiful princess, his eyes taking on a feral glow as he noticed the heaving bosom within her tight dress.

"Princess Grace, I presume." And he bowed respectfully.

Behind the man in black came another, much larger man, balding and plump as a well-fed partridge.

"Sheriff LaRoche," said Minelli angrily, rising to his feet. "You are trespassing, and now you have destroyed my property. Get the hell out of my house."

The sheriff turned a dismissive glance toward his predecessor, speaking in a disconcertingly soft voice. "This house belongs to Hartshorne Castle, old man. It's only by the grace of Lord Craig that you remain here. And now, you have violated the law, so you will live the rest of your miserable days in the dungeons of Hartshorne."

He looked at Grace, who by now was clutching Sir Minelli's arm for her own support.

"I'm afraid plans have changed, Sheriff," said Grace, pleased her voice did not shake. "I have decided not to marry Lord Craig after all, and my brother and I are returning to Maliborough in the morning. So you see, it's all a misunderstanding; no one is being held here against their will."

Sheriff LaRoche narrowed his beady eyes. "You are obviously being forced to say these things, Your Highness. What woman would not be honored to marry Lord Craig and unite our two kingdoms? We are happy to free you from your captivity and escort you to Hartshorne Castle. Mashburn, you and your men take the princess and Sir Minelli to the carriage, and you shall be off immediately."

Mashburn moved to Grace, pulling her gently but firmly from Sir Minelli.

"It will be all right, my child," Minelli murmured to her. "My daughter will see to it."

"No!" Grace said, struggling against Mashburn's firm grip. He was not hurting her, nor was he giving her any latitude. And he expertly avoided her knees and feet, propelling her toward the doorway. Before she could scream, his gloved hand came up to cover her mouth. LaRoche looked on, pleased at the ease with which this was happening.

He didn't have to deal with Lady Teresa, a tiny spitfire of a girl who would have no doubt caused quite a ruckus. Now, with this kidnapping, his suspicions that she was involved with the highwaymen who'd been terrorizing wealthy nighttime travelers was confirmed.

"We'll deal with your daughter later," said LaRoche meaningfully to Minelli.

"If you harm my daughter, I will kill you with my bare hands." A semblance of the dangerous man he used to be contorted Minelli's face and narrowed his eyes to blue slits.

LaRoche gave a grimace that was likely meant to be a smile. "Your strength for that is long gone, old man."

LaRoche wasn't expecting the blow to the jaw, but as Minelli was escorted past the sheriff, he felt a surge of vigor sweeping through his body and he lashed out with all the power he had. It left him shaking and wheezing, but when LaRoche, stumbled back a step, the blood dribbling from his mouth, any discomfort was completely worth it.

"Get him into the blasted carriage!" LaRoche roared uncharacteristically. Minelli shot him a satisfied grin.

The knights were no longer so easy with Minelli, and he was pushed inside the royal carriage of Hartshorne, joining the princess and Sir Mashburn. The coachman lashed his whip, and away went the carriage into the night as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What was that?" said Teresa, struggling to sit up. Unfortunately, the weight of a very sated man lay atop her, his head resting between her breasts.

"Jane! Get up!" she cried, trying to jostle him awake. They'd used their clothing for blankets and the cocoon they'd made beneath was too warm and comfortable by far for the prince to want to move. "A carriage was here. Didn't you hear it?" she said.

"No," he drawled, feeling decidedly boneless and weak. All he could hear was her pounding heart and the soothing patter of rain on the roof. When the significance of her words began to sink in, however, he abruptly sat up. If that bastard Mashburn had returned in their absence…

Quickly, they rose and pulled on their clothing and shoes and exited the barn within two shakes. Rain pelted their faces as they ran through the night, dodging shallow puddles and muck a quarter mile to the cottage. They came in through the back door, dripping wet, a feeling of dread settling over both of them. When they saw the condition of the front door lying on the floor, the rain blowing inside, their worst fears were realized.

"Father!" she cried, running up the stairs to the second floor.

"Grace!" called the prince. They met again in the living area, their expressions grave.

As a bolt of lightning hit nearby, followed by a loud crash of thunder, Patrick moved to lift up the door. Teresa ran to help, but all they could do was allow it to rest against the frame. At least it would provide some barrier from the now pouring rain.

"I'm going to kill that bastard," said Patrick, trembling with exertion and anger. "He must have figured out who I was and so realized who Grace must be."

"And told the sheriff," she added, her worries for her father and his failing health even greater than her fear for what would become of the princess. "They'll be taking them to Hartshorne Castle then," she said. "LaRoche's head is firmly up Lord Craig's arse."

"Tell me where I can find a bloody horse," he growled, wiping the water from his face in frustration and starting for the back door.

"Wait," she said calmly, trying to overcome her own desire to rush out headlong. "We can't just go there without a plan. It won't exactly be easy for the two of us to storm the castle and steal back a princess and an old man. We'll need Rigsby too, at least. He said he'd be back by nightfall, but the rain must have held him up. I do think we can take comfort that they won't be harmed…"

"Yet," he finished her unspoken fear. He reached out and grasped her soaked arms. "Listen, Teresa, I must tell you something. There are things I can do once we get to the castle. Things that I haven't done in years, but I think that I could try."

"What things?" she asked, her eyes wide.

He gulped and took a breath. "The reason my wife and my—my child were killed was because I made another wizard jealous. You see, I have certain…powers."

"Magic?" she whispered, remembering how he had seemed to be two places at once the night before.

He nodded. "Yes."

A thought occurred to her. "This morning, with Sir Mashburn and the horse…was that you?"

"Yes," he said again.

Of course, she knew of wizardry. Many kings and queens relied on wizards for their powers to predict the future, or to direct the course of a battle. She'd never actually met one, however, and knew there were, like with everyone else with any kind of power, those who used it wisely, and those who had darker purposes.

"Well, why can't you wave your hand and bring them back again?" she asked, suddenly excited that things might not be as bad as she'd thought.

"It doesn't work like that," he said. "At least, not for me. I have no idea why Red John thought I was becoming too powerful, why he felt I could even compete with him. He could disappear, change the weather, and I suspect even read people's minds. I never came even close to that level of power. I wonder that he didn't just kill me rather than my wife and child."

She didn't know how to reply to that, so instead she asked: "What became of him?"

He dropped her arms and moved toward the kitchen in search of some dry toweling. "I don't know. He disappeared into thin air, and I haven't seen him in five years. Grace means everything to me," he said almost brokenly. "If something happens to her because I wasn't there to protect her…"

His voice trailed off, and she wondered suddenly if he blamed her for this, regretted their passionate tryst in the barn because it may have caused the loss of his sister. She too wished she had been here to save them, but she couldn't quite make herself regret what had happened between them.

"I'm sorry," she said. He turned back to her, white linen cloth in hand.

"I'm not sorry for what we did, Teresa, please believe that. It's this damnable curse that seems to have settled upon me, that won't let me find more than a moment's pleasure since I began to practice magic. That's why I haven't used my power since my family's deaths. I've used it twice in as many days, and now look what has happened."

"But you'd be willing to use it now, to save my father and Grace?" she asked, her eyes pleading with him.

He went to her then, blotting her face tenderly with the cloth, smoothing her soaked hair back from her eyes.

"I'd do anything for Grace, and for you, milady."

He bent his head and met her cool lips with his own. She went gratefully into his arms, deepening the kiss, trying to take comfort that he would be able to help, that the seemingly impossible task of rescuing their loved ones may not be so unattainable after all.

He pulled gently away, giving her a small smile. "You have any more of your brothers' old clothes lying about?"

"Yes," she told him, her own smile a little wobbly. He kissed her forehead.

"We'll figure something out, I promise. With my brains and your brawn, there's nothing we can't do."

She bristled with mock offense. "_Whose_ brains? I'm the one who wanted to make a plan, first. You were going to ride into the night half-cocked—"

He kissed her again before she got too carried away. When they were both suitably breathless, he raised his head and gave an exaggerated shiver. The familiar twinkle had returned to his eyes, though noticeably dimmer than before.

"Fetch me some hot tea and some dry clothes, woman. We have a castle to storm."

"Thank you," she said softly, before heading for the stairs. He nodded reassuringly, watching her go, leaving a dripping trail behind her.

Prince Patrick went over to the hearth, where the fire had burned down to embers. He put on a few more logs and stood back, then pointed a finger experimentally. The flames ignited instantly to a roaring fire, and Patrick lowered his hand.

A grim expression settled on his face, and he closed his eyes, reaching out with his thoughts. The vision he had was blurry, but he could see in his mind's eye Grace and Sir Minelli in an unfamiliar carriage, Mashburn sitting beside them as it jostled them in the storm. She was obviously frightened, but her thoughts had settled on him.

_Patrick, _she was saying to herself, _if you can hear me, please come quickly. I know you'll save me; I have faith in you._

"I'm coming Grace," he said aloud. "I'm coming."

A/N: Yes, more cliffies! But that keeps you reading, doesn't it? I won't leave you hanging for too long, I promise. Next up, Cho and Summer and the nunnery. And will there be fun storming the castle? It would take a miracle!


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I wanted to have a new chapter up much sooner, but life got in the way (yes, I do have one at times, lol), along with a new episode (please check out my latest tag) that distracted me from writing. Your encouraging e-mails and tweets have been lovely, however, and I hope this chapter is worth the wait.

**Chapter 8**

When Kimball awoke again, he had the feeling he urgently needed to be somewhere else. When he saw the young novice named Summer, he suddenly forgot what his big hurry was to leave. She was sitting by his bed, smiling at him, lovely and warm as her name implied, and once again she was holding a cup of that damnable broth.

"No," he muttered thickly, using all his strength to turn his head away. That, it seemed, was a mistake, for a jolt of pain shot from his head to seemingly every nerve in his body.

"Try to be still, Kimball. You'll hurt yourself."

"Have to…go…"

"Not in your condition, Sir Knight."

"No, I mean, I have to…_go_." He blushed at the need to tell this beautiful woman he was in desperate need of the privy, no doubt due to her last broth feeding.

"Oh," she laughed softly. She set down the mug and went round the bed to pick up the chamber pot beneath it.

"Can you do this yourself?" she asked.

He looked up at her from the pillow, his head swimming, his body weak. He tried experimentally to move to his side, but he gave up after only one try as his head pounded and the bed seemed to be spinning. He felt like he'd come off from an all-night drunk. After a fight. And from his earlier, wilder days, Kimball knew exactly what that felt like.

"I can't," he said.

She sighed, partly in amusement, partly in frustration as to how she was going to help such a solid man move enough to relieve himself. It wasn't as if she weren't intimately familiar with the masculine form—it had been her life's work thus far—and yes, with Kimball's form in particular (She'd peaked beneath the sheets before he'd awakened, and was inordinately pleased with what she saw).

"Very well," she said stoically.

Next thing Kimball knew, she had climbed on the bed and was pushing him to his side with soft grunts of exertion. It was then he realized he was completely naked. His embarrassment grew.

Summer leapt nimbly from the bed again and brought the chamber pot to him beneath the covers.

"Can you manage from here?" she asked sympathetically.

"Yes," he said. When she remained where she was, waiting expectantly, his face flushed even more, if that were possible.

"I uh, can't go with an audience."

"Oh!" She laughed and turned her back. Still no tell-tale sounds from the patient.

"Out of the room would be better," he said.

He heard her tiny feet scamper quickly from the room. His business complete, he called her back again and she helped him and the chamber pot get resettled.

"Thank you," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes.

"You're welcome, Sir Knight," she said, and her compassion made his embarrassment suddenly disappear. She sat on the edge of the bed again, mug of broth in hand. She brought a spoon of the stuff to his lips and he obediently swallowed a sip.

"What is in this swill?" he asked, nose wrinkling at its bitterness. "It isn't taking away the pain, just making me tired."

Summer shrugged. "I'm no nurse. I've seen the sisters help many sick people with their potions, though, including myself a few months ago. I'm sure they know what's best."

"Well, I'd rather suffer this out without medicine." He closed his mouth like a stubborn child and refused to drink any more, despite her persuasively husky voice. She gave up after a few tries, then abruptly poured the rest into the chamber pot.

"Please don't tell the sisters, or there'll be Hell to pay for me."

"Agreed," he said thankfully. He closed his eyes again and drifted off, the young novice's dark eyes haunting his dreams.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kimball awoke to the sound of an angelic voice reading from The Holy Bible. It was soft and melodic, and while he couldn't quite focus on the words, he allowed the sweet sound to flow over him like water. It took great strength to force his eyelids open and take in his surroundings. The reading stopped at the glimpse of his eyes, and Kimball was greeted with Summer's lovely face, smiling in that slightly ironic way she had. He felt his own lips morph into a rare grin.

The sound of someone resettling behind her drew his bleary eyes to Sister Kristina, seated in the chair in the corner, watching him with an enigmatic expression.

"I'm glad to see you are awake again, Sir Kimball," she said. "God is good. I'll bring some more broth to help in your recovery. Summer, you must stay and see that our guest remains in bed."

"Yes, Sister."

The moment she left, Summer reached beneath the mattress and brought out a small book. She opened it to a marked page and began to read a poem that was decidedly not biblical.

_The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,  
>The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,<br>The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
>And the highwayman came riding—<br>Riding—riding—  
>The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.<em>

_Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,  
>And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;<br>He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
>But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,<br>Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
>Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.<em>

_'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,  
>But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;<br>Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  
>Then look for me by moonlight,<br>Watch for me by moonlight,  
>I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way...'*<em>

When she got to the part about the daughter's red lips, Kimball was fully awake, watching Summer's own rosy lips forming the words of the scandalous poem. It made Kimball feel almost heroic, hearing his own occupation made into such a romantic verse. If only he could tell her about it.

When Sister Kristina returned, familiar mug in hand, Summer blithely picked up the Bible and began reading from it again as if she had never stopped. He felt the edge of the poetry book digging into his thigh where she had hidden it in the folds of the blankets.

"Feed our patient, Summer," said the nun. "God's word fills the mind and heart, but we still must feed his belly."

"Yes, Sister," Summer replied with a wink at Kimball.

"Perhaps later, you may have some porridge if you're up to it."

"Thank you, Sister," said Kimball.

Summer took the mug and moved to feed him, forced by their witness into shoving a spoonful into his mouth before Sister Kristina nodded in satisfaction and left the room. Summer lowered the spoon, then, looking around went to the small window and dumped the rest of its contents outside.

"Thank you," said Kimball.

"Do you feel strong enough yet to get out of bed," she asked in an urgent whisper.

Kimball's eyes grew instantly alert, despite the drug that still remained in his system.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

"I-I think the sisters are keeping you drugged on purpose so you won't leave."

"What?"

Her brown eyes flashed with what seemed to be anger on his behalf. "I heard them talking this morning while you were asleep. Sister Kristina had spoken to someone named Dumar, who told them we were to keep you here by any means necessary."

"Why?" Could anyone else know of his true business at Maliborough Castle?

"I don't know; I had to move out of sight or risk discovery."

"You'll help me escape?" Kimball asked. While he was more alert now, his body still felt weak.

"Yes…if you'll take me with you. Isn't that what knights are supposed to do? Save damsels in distress?"

He regarded her a moment, wondering if he could really trust her. She'd told him about how they were drugging him, had dumped his broth just because he'd asked her to. His naturally suspicious nature might well be dampened by his head injury along with the sleeping potion. Her beauty didn't help him think straight either. Was he being drawn even more deeply into a trap? But in his current condition, he knew he could not escape without her help

But what would he do with a former prostitute once they were away? The impure thoughts that arose made him feel instantly contrite. She was a lady in need of help and here he was contemplating taking advantage of her.

"Can you ride?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, but her lips quirked at what had suddenly become a double entendre. Kimball couldn't help his own small smile at the girl's audacity.

"Can you get us each a horse?"

"The sisters have a stables for when they need to take the horse cart to visit the sick and needy."

Kimball nodded, having made his decision. "We'll wait until dark. Maybe by then, I'll feel stronger."

His stomach growled alarmingly, and he blushed again.

"Solid food might go a long way toward reviving you, Kimball," she commented in amusement.

There was no arguing with that.

"I'll talk to Sister Kristina about that porridge. And maybe I can sneak in some bread and cheese."

"Please," he said simply.

"In the meantime, would you like to hear more of my favorite poem?"

"Yes," he said wholeheartedly, and her answering smile of delight lit up her face to unbearably beautiful levels. She reached again for the small tome.

"How is it," he asked before she could begin. "That a woman like—that you can read so well?"

She shrugged. "My mother had once been a governess," she said, not sounding offended. "She fell on hard times, but when she had me, she needed an outlet for her teaching." There was obviously more to this story, but Kimball wasn't one to pry. Still, he felt an unaccountable anger toward this woman he'd never met.

"But why did she let you stay in those…conditions?"

"You mean, why did I live in a brothel? Tell me, Kimball, who's going to marry the daughter of a harlot and take her away from all of that? Come to that, who's going to marry a harlot? Mum did what she knew to do, and now I must do the same." She leaned closer to him, her whispered words making him tingle. "_You're_ my savior, Kimball. Not these dried up old witches."

"That's blasphemous," he said, conscious of the crucifix hanging above his bed. But his usual brusque manner was tempered by the softness of his eyes as he looked upon her.

She smiled. "When we get out of here, you'll have to tell me why even godly women would want to make you suffer."

"Perhaps," he said, and when she saw the slightly suggestive glint in his eye, she laughed so hard, Sister Rebecca peeked in to see what the matter was.

As if on cue, Summer brought the Bible back before her and read a random verse, her eyes still bright with laughter. Sister Rebecca nodded, then left them alone.

"Now, rest, Kimball," she told him. "_I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way…"_

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They had left the horse and cart parked outside an inn in Hartshorne, and walked through the streets in their peasant clothes, blending in easily with the other townsfolk there for market day. Teresa wore a dress, and the way it clung to her bodice and emphasized her tiny waist was extremely distracting. Patrick couldn't help remembering how she'd looked, naked beneath him in the barn, eyes glazed with passion. With an effort, he focused on the job at hand. Besides, he remembered with a smile, he knew she held an iron crow and a loaded musket hidden beneath her skirts.

Hartshorne Castle loomed above the town, beautiful with its white stone towers. High atop them, flapping in the morning breeze, were red pennants emblazoned with a hart and its full rack of antlers. The mote surrounding the castle was deep and dark, the drawbridge down in this time of deceptive peace.

"Which tower would they be in," asked Prince Patrick, his eyes going unobtrusively to the spires that seemed to rise into the clouds.

"The eastern tower," Teresa said. "At least, that's where they used to hold political prisoners. But they may be keeping the princess somewhere else. God forbid they are being held in the dungeons."

As they moved closer, there seemed to be a strange kind of excitement in the air, and they heard smatterings of conversation, about Lord Craig's new bride, and the hope that a wedding may soften his heart and bring to the kingdom lasting peace and new prosperity. Patrick took this as news that perhaps Grace was being treated well, and his spirits lifted. Hopefully there had been no secret wedding, and she was not bound to the bastard yet through the imprisoning bonds of marriage.

Rigsby eyed the gatehouse warily, and while the first portcullis was drawn up, there was still something forbidding about the place. When Queen Madeleine had been in power, there had been a welcoming atmosphere, and her subjects had been invited weekly to air their grievances and receive royal attention. They had heard that such practices were no more, that Lord Craig paid no mind to the needs of the serfs. Two armed guards stood now at the gate, waving away anyone who expressed an overt interest in entering the castle.

He met Teresa's eyes, and a common thought passed between them. Neither of them had been there since her father had been assigned the job in Sacraham. Things seemed on the surface much the same here, but both of them knew life under Lord Craig was very different now, especially in the outlying villages.

"I warn you again, this is not going to be easy," said Patrick, sensing their shared hesitation. "I cannot even guarantee it will work."

"Yes, but my father and your sister are in there, and without our help, they aren't coming out at all."

Patrick nodded. "Once we get inside the castle, I think we'll have ten minutes at most. If we can't find them in that time, we _all _might find ourselves in the tower—or worse."

Rigsby was still highly skeptical, namely because he hadn't personally witnessed any of the prince's so-called powers of wizardry. But his trust in Teresa, along with his intense desire to rescue both the princess and Sir Minelli, outweighed his hesitation. Besides, he didn't have any better ideas.

Teresa had suggested earlier that Patrick could simply put on his finest princely robes and demand the return of his sister, but they'd reconsidered. If Lord Craig had the audacity to steal a princess, he'd have no qualms holding a prince, war or no war. Then, where would they all be? No, they must depend on the prince and the seemingly impossible plan he'd proposed. Teresa had trusted him with her body, now she must trust him with the life of her father.

As if reading her mind, Patrick squeezed the hand he held, looking fondly down into her wide green eyes, while Rigsby tried to ignore the radical change of atmosphere between them. What a difference a day could make. Ever since his arrival at the boss's house in the rain the night before, he'd noticed how they would look at each other when they thought he wasn't watching, how the prince would touch her surreptitiously, once to remove a stray piece of straw from her hair.

When he'd caught them kissing passionately in the kitchen when he'd brought his tools in to fix the front door, his suspicions had been confirmed. The boss had found a mate. It wasn't that Rigsby disapproved; she was a grown woman after all, long past marriageable age. No, what got to Rigsby most was envy of their happiness, and he felt a sharp pain in his gut that he might have lost Princess Grace before he'd even had a chance to see if he could find his own happiness with her.

They stopped near the gatehouse, and Patrick eyed the guards before looking at his companions.

"Here is our first test," he said, taking a deep breath. His heart picked up speed, and he willed himself to be calm. The guards must feel completely relaxed and not threatened for this to work. "Follow my lead."

He pulled Teresa along with him to stand before the guard, Rigsby towering over them in the rear. The first guard grasped the sword at his hip and paused before the daring trio.

"Move along, folks. No visitors today."

The prince stared deeply into the man's eyes, deep-set beneath beetled brows.

"We need an audience with Lord Craig at once."

The guard's eyes dilated, his entire stance relaxing. "Of course, sir. Proceed."

The other guard, seeing the strange interaction, walked purposefully to where his companion stood with Patrick.

"Hey, what is the meaning of—"

But he too was quickly caught in the net of the prince's gaze, and magically became totally compliant.

"We are going inside now," Patrick said softly. "After we have gone, neither of you will remember anything of this incident."

"Very well," said the second guard, standing aside politely.

Rigsby and Teresa looked at the guards, then at each other in amazement. Teresa resisted the urge to cross herself in awe of the power Patrick seemed to have over the men's minds.

"Let's go," he was saying, leading the way through the gatehouse and across the drawbridge. Patrick felt somewhat shaken; he hadn't done this in years, and before it had been a trick for the amusement of others. Now, it was a matter of life or death.

"What did you do to them?" Teresa asked.

"I put them in a temporary trance. It was simple enough to do two at once. The real challenge lies ahead of us."

At the entrance to the castle, there were four more guards, heavily armored and armed. Patrick waved his hand, and immediately they became as biddable as those at the gatehouse.

"Jesu," muttered Rigsby.

"Amen," echoed Teresa.

Patrick smiled, feeling some of his tension releasing at their wonder. "It isn't magic, exactly, with one at a time," he told them. "I could teach you how to do it in a few days."

Rigsby shook his head, his expression slightly fearful. "No, thank you."

The second open portcullis was all that separated them now from entering the castle.

"Are you ready?" the prince asked them. "Remember, you may have only minutes, and you must close your eyes when I give the signal."

"Yes," said Teresa, and she looked up at him, fully confident now in his abilities. She tiptoed up to kiss him on the lips, and it took all of Patrick's self-control not to draw her roughly to him and ravage her in front of this fine castle. But his sister awaited him.

"Very well, then." Patrick focused on his breathing, willing his body to become calm as he thought of his sister, betrothed to a tyrant, and of the kindly old man who had known him as a child, perhaps being ill-treated somewhere within these stone walls. He would do this—_had_ to do this—or all would be lost, for all of them.

Lord Craig was holding court, various nobles all atwitter about the upcoming nuptials between him and the beautiful princess of Maliborough. Patrick, Teresa and Rigsby entered the throne room without much more than sniffs of superiority at their clothing, and they were careful to keep to the shadows near the wall. That is, until the prince caught sight of his sister, sitting on the throne right next to Lord Craig at the center of the room.

Teresa felt him tense beside her, and followed his eyes to where Grace sat. Grace appeared frightened, and it was obvious to Teresa that she did not want to be there. Two men stood guard on either side of her, and naturally the courtiers would believe it was for her protection. But Patrick noticed at the same time that she was not moving much, in fact, seemed bound to her very chair, the ropes likely hidden beneath her elegant robes. The anger within Patrick's breast erupted, and he felt a heady feeling of power coursing through him.

Abruptly, he released Teresa's hand and stepped into the center of the room. Various guards, heretofore standing at attention around the room, stepped forward as the crowds parted around the lowly peasant who dared enter the presence of the future king of Hartshorne.

"Jane—" Teresa began, but Rigsby pulled her back out of sight. Her heart sped up even more. This was not part of the plan.

"Lord Craig," boomed the voice of Prince Patrick. "I demand you release my sister at once!"

"Guards!" someone called.

Lord Craig, engaged in an animated conversation with a beautiful lady, stopped mid-laugh, his eyes going from the lady's cleavage to the man who now commanded everyone's attention.

"Patrick!" called Grace, his suspicions confirmed as she struggled against her bonds. Her guards, instructed to insure she kept quiet, unobtrusively pressed their daggers closer to her waist. Patrick clenched his fists in rage, but he spared a reassuring glance at his sister, then turned the full force of his anger on Lord Craig. The elaborately dressed usurper rose at the same time his armed men began to advance on the prince.

"Who is it that dares break the solemnity of this assembly on such a happy occasion?" Lord Craig demanded.

"I am Prince Patrick of Maliborough," he replied. "And you have kidnapped my sister and plan to force her into marriage against her will."

The courtiers gasped in outrage.

Seemingly unperturbed, Lord Craig chuckled lightly. "If you are the Prince of Maliborough, why…I am the King of Siam." Various nobles around him joined in his laughter. "Guards, seize this ill-clad imposter!"

By this time Craig's minions had Patrick by the arms, but in a burst of power, his flung them from him, and they flew across the room, knocking over a few courtiers before crashing into the tapestry covered walls. He vaguely heard the screams of frightened women, or the moans of the injured.

"Release her, Lord Craig, or I will raze this castle to the ground."

More guards were advancing on him, and despite his realization that rumor of Prince Patrick's wizardry might well be true, Lord Craig stood his ground, confident that his men would eventually get him in hand.

"You and what army?" he asked cockily, as his cronies looked to him for orders.

At this, Teresa reached beneath her dress and stepped forward, musket pointed at Lord Craig's handsome face. Guards everywhere halted their advance.

"I, for one," she called.

Rigsby pulled out his own weapon, training it on the lord's heart.

"And I," he said, moving to stand on the other side of the prince. Lord Craig's eyes lightened in recognition.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the Lady Teresa. My, but you have changed since the skinny girl who left court years ago. But I'd recognize those flashing emerald eyes anywhere." His eyes raked her petite frame in insolent appreciation.

"Where's my father?" she demanded.

"He _was _being offered every courtesy—but not after today, unfortunately." His kind expression suddenly melted into one of cruelty.

"You bastard," she raged, finger moving to the trigger. "Bring him to me before I shoot you where you stand!"

From nowhere came the click of a crossbow, and the accompanying _whoosh_ of an arrow flying through the air. Before Patrick could even think, Teresa had dropped to the floor, her musket discharging into the crowd as the arrow found its way into the slim muscle of her arm. She cried out in pain. Pandemonium ensued, along with more screams as Teresa's wayward musket ball had inadvertently found a victim. Rigsby knelt beside his boss, and Patrick, shaking with wrath, brought up his hands and muttered a spate of a long-forgotten language.

Everyone literally froze in place, abruptly and completely silenced. Patrick looked around him, at the living statues he'd created of the nobles and guards of the palace. Lord Craig had his arm flung out, pointing to a guard to fire his musket. The ball from that weapon hung ominously in the air.

His sister's face was a mask of horror at the moment she'd witnessed Teresa's injury. So angry had Patrick been that he'd forgotten to give Rigsby and Teresa the signal to protect themselves from his magic, and now they too were locked in the manner in which his spell had frozen them. Patrick followed Grace's fixed stare to Teresa, who sat on the ground, clutching her arm near the entrance wound of the arrow. Rigsby was assessing the damage, his hand in mid-air in preparation of pulling out the damaging shaft.

The prince had no idea how long his spell would last, but he realized he had a painful decision to make. Alone, he might have enough time to remove his sister and Teresa from the palace, but as for the others—well, he hoped Teresa would be able to forgive him. He took comfort in his positivity that Sir Minelli would want him to rescue his daughter before him.

He had a distant hope that perhaps later he'd be able to put up some sort barrier to stop everyone, or maybe freeze them all again. But he'd never been able to buoy up enough energy to exert one powerful spell so quickly after another. And he hadn't even attempted such a thing in five years. It was still a wonder to him that he'd managed to wield any magic at all, but he suspected his anger at Teresa's injury had caused his latent power to surge within him. Now, he felt utterly drained, but knowing time was of the essence, he somehow found the strength to move quickly toward his sister.

Patrick had just knocked away Grace's motionless guards and then gone to work on her ropes when he felt a cold chill run through him, felt a presence of evil that was horribly, unmistakably familiar. The soft, high-pitched voice that had tormented his dreams now echoed through the deathly still halls. His head rose as the hand of fear gripped his racing heart, and he turned to face his demon at last.

"Prince Patrick," said Red John the wizard. "I've been expecting you…"

A/N: Another cliffie strikes again! In this chapter, I stole from _Star Wars _and even "Sleeping Beauty," and you probably could find other borrowed ideas throughout. I remain blatantly unapologetic. Thanks for reading this. Please sign in and let me know what you think!

*As for the poem Summer reads in the first part of this section, I have taken GREAT poetic license in including it. "The Highwayman," by Alfred Noyes, was actually written in the early twentieth century. But I found it so fitting for my story, and feel it _sounds_ as if it could have been written in the nebulous timeframe of this fic, that I felt compelled to include it. I did skip a few verses, so if you want to read this wonderfully tragic poem in its entirety, do a search on the internet for it.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I've been suffering from some major writer's block this week, and add to that it is my last week of school, so it's been very hectic. Consequently, this chapter did not turn out as I'd envisioned, but I hope you like what I've done anyway. Thanks for all the continued support and encouragement. Please enjoy…

**Chapter 9**

"John," said the prince, his eyes round with horrific surprise.

"I imagine you thought me gone for good," said the red wizard.

Patrick straightened and stood on the dais where his sister sat, frozen on Hartshorne's throne.

"I had hoped. But then again, we have some unfinished business, haven't we?" said Patrick tightly.

Red John chuckled lightly, but no humor lit his fathomless eyes. Those eyes had always reminded Patrick of a snake's. The wizard glanced around at the courtiers, frozen in time around them.

"I see you are at last using your powers again. Impressive, but I fear your spell is not powerful enough to last; it's fragile, as is life. Perhaps you should have kept in practice. My spies have told me you stopped practicing abruptly five years ago. That wasn't in deference to me, was it?"

Patrick's hands clenched with anger, but he forced his voice to remain calm and cool. He couldn't decide if he was angrier with the wizard's audacity or with the idea that he'd been spied upon.

"I lost my taste for magic, yes. But had you not disappeared like a coward after you murdered my family, I might have gone on to be _very _proficient."

Confronted at last with the cause of five years of torture, he couldn't help his voice rising in anger. He took a step toward the wizard, but some unseen force prevented him. He held up a hand and brushed the force field aside with ease. Red John nodded in appreciation of his skill. Unencumbered, Patrick proceeded down from the dais.

"Aw. Still harboring resentments, I see. And what would you have done to me, young man, had I stayed and let you use your untrained powers on me?"

"You would have died in the very hour that you butchered my wife and child.

How could you have killed them—a woman, a—a little girl? For what? For an insult to your pride?" His voice broke over mention of his dead child.

"Is that what your father told you?" Red John asked, amused. "All this time you've been blaming yourself. How wonderfully…tragic."

"Why would my father lie about such a thing?" He shook his head in frustration. "No matter the reason, you killed my family, and you haven't had a day of regret or suffering for it."

"Perhaps. But your father shares in the blame as well."

Patrick knew he shouldn't be listening to him, that he couldn't trust a word that spouted from his vile mouth. But something niggled at the back of his mind, something his father might have said in passing on that fateful day, that his anger and grief had stifled in his memory.

He found himself asking,"Why?"

"Do we have time before the castle awakens? Before chaos ensues again and you and your lovely sister are put in the tower?"

Patrick looked around him, his eyes resting briefly on Teresa. "I don't know," he admitted. "But you'll be brief with your explanations, before I slit your throat just like you did my family."

Red John raised a skeptical eyebrow, but began telling an unfamiliar tale.

"It started as an agreement long before, as your mother lay dying on the birthing bed. Your father asked if I could save her. I warned him that sparing one life demands sacrifice of two more within twenty-five years. But you were his son, his newborn heir, so he begged I spare you."

"And yet, my mother died ten years later, in childbirth with Grace."

"Another of life's little ironies, I suppose. I was forbidden by law from saving her a second time, I'm afraid. A shame too—all that lovely red hair…"

Patrick ground his teeth together, becoming angrier with every word.

"It was your twenty-fifth birthday that day, wasn't it, Prince?" continued the wizard, seemingly oblivious to the younger man's pain. "The day of reckoning had arrived. Pressed to choose, well, you should be flattered to know the King chose that your life be spared again."

"So he chose Angela instead of me? And my little Charlotte? His only grandchild? Why couldn't he have chosen a prisoner, a murderer? Someone deserving to die?"

"I'm sorry, Your Highness, but the laws of wizardry clearly state the lives must be of equal value to you as the one that was spared. At first, he refused to choose, but I would have killed him and you had he not."

Patrick stood, still as the rest of the courtiers, betrayal now mixed with anger and sadness, all threatening to overwhelm him. His throat worked to form the words, but all he could think of was the bodies of Angela and Charlotte, lying in their own blood, sacrificed so that he might live.

"It was nothing personal, I assure you. Tragic though, isn't it, Prince? You've been hating me all of these years, when it is all your father's doing."

Patrick found his voice, and his words came out in a roar of despair. "You were the one who killed them! You agreed to that devil's bargain. You share the blame with that lying bastard of a father of mine! Now, you will both pay!"

From the prince's hands slipped two streams of blue fire, aimed right at the head of the red-clad wizard. Red John took a few involuntary steps backward, then stepped aside at the last moment lest he be incinerated. The tapestry behind him burst into flames, and when Patrick willed the fire to his fingertips again, he felt himself suddenly hurled backward, held fast to the wall like a butterfly beneath a collector's pin. He wilted, panting with exertion and the pain of impact. Red John suddenly appeared before him, but the prince could not move his arms to lash out.

"Life is a contradiction, is it not?" mused the wizard. "The same God who made the tiger also made the lamb. The same God who made the strong wizards, also made the weak." He leaned his head in closely to Patrick's, his dark eyes roiling like an evil storm. Patrick made himself look into those eyes, and he had the sickening feeling he was looking into the very bowels of Hell.

"If there is a God, he had no hand in _your_ construction," Jane ground out, struggling against his invisible bond.

The wizard laughed. "You must be feeling a great weight lifting from your spirit, to be able to confront me as you've been denied these past several years. A pity that I must kill you now, for the sake of my new master's bid for power."

Patrick ignored the threat, his mind working frantically to come up with a spell or trick that could free him. He reached back into his memory, to his studies, to the very advice Red John had given him long ago.

"You're advising Lord Craig now?" he said, to distract the wizard and postpone his own demise. "You're behind all of the suffering of this kingdom, aren't you?"

"Suffering is good for the soul, Patrick. It helps to open our eyes to the world around us."

"I'm beginning to see things much more clearly," said Patrick dryly. "I've been blinded by falsehoods my entire life. I suppose I should thank you now for your honesty."

Red John inclined his head in acknowledgement. Then, the wizard raised one bony hand and pointed at the prince. "I will honor you with the choice of how you would like to die."

"I get a choice? How kind of you."

"Yes, I suppose it is. Will it be through fire? Through choking? Through disintegration?"

"None of the above?" Patrick proposed hopefully. "Whatever happened to quietly dying in one's sleep at an ancient age?" He closed his eyes tightly, his jaw set as he focused on a spell he thought he'd forgotten.

"I'm afraid such a death is not your fate, Your High-."

At that very moment, several things happened at once. The inhabitants of the castle awoke to instant motion as if they hadn't been frozen in time at all. The lead ball that had hung in the air from the guard's musket hit an unintended victim, and Prince Patrick of Maliborough disappeared.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa gasped in pain as Rigsby grabbed hold of the arrow protruding through her arm. Her eyes searched the riotous crowd for a certain pair of blue-green eyes, but Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a tall man in red robes was mysteriously in his place, and the report of a musket firing still echoed loudly in the hall. She watched as the red-clad man clutched his chest and fell to his knees.

More women of the court screamed at the latest victim, and Lord Craig let loose a strangled cry of dismay, rushing forward to his fallen advisor.

"John!" he cried. Then he grabbed the skirts of a serving wench. "Fetch me a surgeon!"

"Yes, my lord!" the frightened girl said shakily, happily continuing on her way out of the chaotic throne room.

It was difficult for Lord Craig to see the blood for the crimson robes of the wizard, but he moved it aside and found the gaping hole near his heart. If he were any other man, he would have died instantly. Instead, he was coughing, blood lacing his spittle.

"How is it that you are here?" Lord Craig whispered anxiously, avoiding those disturbing eyes, now even darker with the pain of his injury.

"Magic, of course," said Red John.

"What happened to the prince?" One instant he had been there, causing this uproar; the next, he was nowhere to be seen.

"I suspect he'll turn up very soon." He laughed laboriously between coughs.

Lord Craig helped him lie down, and as he watched, amazed, the wizard's face grew taut with concentration. Before his very eyes, Craig saw the flattened lead ball emerge from Red John's wound, and fall to the stone floor with a small _clink. _Beneath the red robes, the gaping hole in his ashen skin slowly closed until it became pristine and smooth as a baby's.

Red John grinned in satisfaction at the young man's awed expression.

"I've no need for any of your weak _human_ intervention," he said mockingly. To Craig's further amazement, the wizard was able to rise immediately and stand, then disappear in puff of red smoke.

Craig stared at the empty space where the wizard had been, trying amidst the chaos to process all that he had seen. But then he caught another movement from the corner of his eye-Lady Teresa, and the familiar looking man who had just removed the arrow from her arm. Lord Craig rose angrily to his feet.

"Guards! Seize the intruders!"

Rigsby had torn a strip of cloth from his shirt, and was wrapping it tightly around Teresa's wound. The two guards grabbed him from behind, pulling Rigsby roughly to his feet. He struggled, but when a third held his sword against Teresa's throat, Rigsby gave up his fight. His father used to have an expression, about how things always got worse before they got better. As he caught the sad eyes of Princess Grace, still tied to her throne, he wondered when the better part would come.

Another guard helped Teresa to stand, and she and Rigsby were pushed toward the door that she knew led down to the dungeons.

"No!" cried Grace. But no one was paying attention to the helpless princess.

"Have you seen Jane?" Teresa asked Rigsby as she nearly tripped down the steep, dark stairs. The initial numbness in her arm was moving quickly to downright agony, and she could feel the warm blood soaking the cloth and running down her arm.

"No. One second he was there, then, it was as if he'd…vanished."

"He'll save us," she said, more to convince herself than Rigsby. "I feel it."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick watched everything in silence, hidden by the spell he'd remembered for invisibility. Years ago, he had begun to become quite proficient at it, but the condition would only last for minutes at a time. This day, he'd already been weak from the energy it had taken to halt the movements of those in the castle, but his power seemed to feed off of his anger and desperation, and he'd become re-energized. He did not know if he could fight Red John face-to-face and win, but maybe he could wreak his own kind of havoc in this state.

He would have to come up with another plan, and he was still left with the realization that he was only one man, albeit gifted with certain powers, but he had four people to rescue now instead of just two. Once again, the use of that power had caused pain to someone he cared about, but this time, he would not back down.

He watched Red John heal himself, watched Teresa and Rigsby being taken to the dungeons, watched his sister, helplessly witnessing everything from the throne. Somewhere within this castle was Lord Minelli, along with the imprisoned Queen, he realized suddenly. Perhaps he could even set things to rights on that account. It would take careful planning, however, or he ran the risk of getting them all killed.

Suddenly, a loud voice filled his head—so loud that he brought his hands up to his ears in a vain attempt to stifle it.

"I know you are here, Your Highness," said Red John ominously. No one else seemed to hear him. "It is only a matter of time before your own weakness reveals you. In the meantime, your friends will pay dearly for the pain you caused me, make no mistake."

From the bowels of the castle came a long, feminine wail of agony.

_Teresa! _ His brain screamed.

Patrick gritted his teeth against the urge to run to her. But if he went to her now, Red John would discover him immediately. He'd be walking into the spider's carefully spun web. The wizard was definitely toying with him, for he could have killed them all in one fell swoop. He only hoped he would continue playing this game long enough that Patrick could spin a web of his own.

A/N: I know—not quite the huge battle I'd promised. But I decided I didn't want to end this fic yet, which would need an epic showdown. So, I think round one is a draw.

Next up, a little SumCho magic.

P.S. I'm working on this week's tag. I should have it within the next day or two.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: My writer's block seems to have subsided, so this chapter is much longer than the last. Hopefully I'll have updates sooner too, since school is out for me. Thanks for your patience, especially those of you with unanswered reviews. I'll try to get to them today…

**Chapter 10**

As promised, Summer did come for him by moonlight, long past when the sisters had been called to their final prayers of the evening, and the abbey was dark and quiet.

"Kimball," she said, shaking him awake. She held a lantern in one hand and a bundle of familiar read cloth in the other. "Here," she said. "Put this on."

He sat up in bed and unfolded her offering.

"You're joking," he said grimly. "There is no way I'm wearing this. For one thing, it's…blasphemous."

Even in the dim lamplight, he caught the amusement in her brown eyes. "It's all I could get on such short notice. They must be hiding your clothes somewhere so you can't escape. The sisters, they watch me like giant red hawks, and I couldn't get away to find something else. This was Sister Lucy's habit. She left the convent about a month ago. It should fit you in the shoulders, but I think she was a bit taller than you…"

"No," he reiterated, refolding the red habit. "I'm no woman."

"Oh, I've no doubt of that," she said, a touch wickedly. Kimball's eyes narrowed.

"Look," she continued, before he could protest further. "This will serve another purpose—in the darkness, with the wimple on, you'll look like one of the sisters, so if someone happens to see us, they'll be less likely to question us. As for being blasphemous, well I don't think these women are doing God's work."

She had a point-several, actually. "Fine," he conceded. He moved his legs over to dangle them off the side of the high bed. He was feeling much stronger, the drug having nearly worn off, and Summer had snuck him solid food earlier. He was about to stand, when he remembered he was naked beneath the covers.

"Could you…?" He twirled his finger once, clockwise.

"Why? You have something I haven't seen before?"

He stared at her until she grinned and turned her back. Kimball stood, then swayed a little, still lightheaded from the drug and his head injury. Summer heard him fall against the bed, rattling the bedside table. Quickly, she rushed to his side.

He was leaning against the bed with both hands, completely nude. She'd snuck that peak earlier, but nothing had prepared her for how beautifully made he was, from those wonderfully broad shoulders, to his thick arms, muscular stomach and buttocks, and of course, that enticing part of him she'd already beheld earlier. She held him steady while he took a moment to let the dizziness subside.

"You sure you are ready for this?" she asked softly.

"Yes. They're going to start wondering why I'm not sleeping. And I have urgent business in Maliborough, as I said."

She nodded, helping him stand again. She was standing in front of him, her hands steadying him at his hips. "Well, let's get you dressed then."

His eyes met hers, and the feeling of her hands on his bare skin, the warmth of her body so close to his, and her eyes, soft and shimmery as brown silk, combined to only further addle his brain. His breathing increased, and those eyes of hers widened as she realized where his thoughts had gone. He watched with pounding heart as she leaned her face up closer to his and pressed her warm lips to his stubbled cheek.

"There'll be time enough for that once we get you out of here, Kimball," she whispered. Her hands had come to rest on his taut stomach, and he trembled a little beneath her touch and the promise in her eyes. He swallowed hard and stepped away. With one last glance of longing, she allowed him his privacy and turned around so he could dress.

"I suppose it was too much to ask for boots?" said Kimball, without real hope.

"Sorry. Sister Lucy was a large woman, but her feet were as small as a child's."

His only answer was a sigh of annoyance.

"I'm ready," he said finally, a hint of disgust in his voice. She turned to look, her hands immediately going to her lips to stifle a laugh.

"You are the ugliest woman I've ever seen," she said. His stern expression beneath the tightly fitting wimple made her erupt into helpless giggles, which she smothered again with her hands.

"You finished?" he asked at length.

She nodded solemnly, but her eyes still sparkled with mirth.

"Lead the way," he said with more than a hint of annoyance.

Now that he'd stood a few minutes, the dizziness seemed to have subsided, and Kimball followed his unlikely savior and her lantern through the shadowed halls of the abbey. They met no one until they got to the door. To the right of their exit, sat a lone nun, Sister Rebecca. She was apparently on guard duty that night, for she sat in an uncomfortable looking ladder-back chair near a small table with a single candle, her Bible open in her lap. She was snoring. They tiptoed back into the dark hall.

"Any other way out?" he whispered.

"Through the kitchens, but there might be other sisters making the morning bread."

"I thought these old abbeys had secret passages and doors."

"I haven't been here long enough to find them. And, as I said, I'm always being watched."

"Except at night," Kimball noted.

"Yes_, this_ night. I laced Sister Kristina's tea with some of the potion meant for you. She is sleeping soundly, in the bed next to mine. Unless you count her snoring, which is even louder than usual. I guess these nuns are able to be quiet during the day because they get it all out of their systems at night."

Kimball found himself smiling at the girl's humor as well as her inventiveness.

As it happened, the bread was already rising on the hearth and the cooks were nowhere in sight.

"Good," said Kimball, his eyes quickly finding the kitchen door. "But who guards the back-?"

A loud squawking interrupted him, and they were suddenly faced with a huge black raven, whose perch was before the door. There could be no better watchdog than Dumar.

"Bloody hell," cursed the novice, "I forgot about that damned bird!"

"Do you know how to calm it down?" asked Kimball desperately, over the angry cawing.

"Quiet birdy. Nice birdy," Summer tried. Kimball rolled his eyes. "I don't even know its name," she said in frustration.

Talking to it only seemed to further incite the bird. Kimball grabbed some linen toweling that covered the loaves of bread, and slowing advanced on the raven. It moved from side to side on its perch, leaning its beak forward to peck at them if they tried to get closer. It was not allowing them to pass, and seemed not the least bit frightened of their sudden movements. The noise was getting louder, and Kimball was just about to throw the cloth over it, when a voice came from behind them. They both froze, hearts beating at being discovered.

"Who's there?" asked Sister Rosalind.

Summer put her hand out to still Kimball, then placed her finger aside her nose before turning to confront the blind nun.

"I'm sorry, Sister. It's only me, Summer. The bird and I seemed to have frightened each other."

"Dumar!" said Sister Rosalind sternly. The raven abruptly ceased its squawking, then flew over to land on her shoulder.

_Dumar? _Summer thought. _The sisters get their information from a bird? What kind of unnatural place is this?_

"Why are you in the kitchens so late at night?" Rosalind asked suspiciously.

Summer glanced nervously at Kimball, whose eyes were comically wide beneath his borrowed veil. She pressed her lips tightly together to prevent herself from laughing again in nervousness.

"Summer?" Rosalind prompted at her silence, using her long cane to tap her way further inside the room.

"You've caught me, Sister. I—I was so busy tending to our patient that I missed supper. I was so hungry I couldn't sleep. I was just going to find a bit of cheese or something. I know it's forbidden—"

Sister Rosalind's face softened, and the inherent sweetness and tender heart of the woman settled once again in her expression. "That's quite all right, poor girl. You were doing God's work, so I don't think He would begrudge you a light repast for your trouble. Just this once, you may get some of yesterday's bread and maybe some cheese. Get it quickly and go back to bed. We'll neither of us speak a word of this tomorrow."

"Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister. God bless you."

"And you, child. Good night."

As she turned to leave, her cane tapping on the stone floor, Kimball let out a soft, involuntary sigh. The sister turned swiftly around, her sharp ears not missing the slightest sound.

"Is there someone else in here with you, Summer?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. I was just sighing in relief that I won't be made to scrub the floors for this."

Rosalind still looked skeptical, cocking her head to listen as Kimball stood still as a statue. The moment seemed to stretch forever, and Kimball was worried he might swoon from holding his breath. But then, the sister smiled.

"And well you should be grateful. If Sister Kristina had discovered you, why Goliath would have seemed as a lamb by comparison."

"Yes, Sister," said Summer, an answering smile in her voice. She shot Kimball an annoyed glance.

"I'll just take Dumar with me so he won't awaken anyone else. Be quick, now, girl."

And Summer and Kimball stood still until the tapping faded away.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said Kimball under his breath.

"One minute," said Summer, giving Kimball the lantern and running to the larder. She emerged with a bundle of bread and cheese. "I meant to take some earlier, and Sister Rosalind reminded me."

Kimball nodded, and they went to the door, pulling up the bar and pushing it open. Mercifully, it did not squeak.

Outside in the cool evening, Summer led the way to the small barn. Inside there was but one old mare, long past her prime. Kimball shook his head, holding up the lantern to see if they had any other choices.

"I thought you said there was a horse and cart."

"Yes, normally. A couple of sisters had to take it to Hartshorne. Turns out Red John had summoned them to attend Lord Craig's wedding."

"Red John?" The name sounded vaguely familiar.

"Yes. He's the high priest above the Sisters of the Sacred Eye. He came for a visit once since I've been here, and the sisters were both in awe and terrified of him, except perhaps for Sister Rosalind. She seems to be his favorite, if you know what I mean."

Kimball looked scandalized. Summer grinned. How could such a strong, vital man seem at the same time so…innocent? Perhaps she had not seen the real Kimball yet. She supposed his reactions really meant that he was honorable.

"Well, let's get this old maid saddled and we can get out of this den of iniquity."

Kimball discarded his veil and wimple in relief and shone the light on the walls of the small wooden structure, the normal place for a saddle to be hung. He found no saddle there, nor was there one set on a stand or a table, for there was none of the usual furniture one might see in a barn. He looked reluctantly at the bare back of the aged horse and sighed, setting down the lantern.

"No saddle?" he asked, just to be sure.

"I don't know where else to look," Summer replied apologetically.

"Well, we've no time to spare anyway. Someone might check on us in the abbey and then they'd start looking for us. Can you ride bareback?"

She shrugged. "I suppose it really doesn't matter at this point, does it?"

"No. Open the barn door." She obeyed his gruff command with a smirk, rolling the wide door back into its casing with nary a squeak. The nuns obviously valued their silence.

Thankfully, the horse at least had a bridle on, and Kimball was able to hold onto it and leap nimbly upon its back. The moment his bare skin beneath the nun's habit met horseflesh, he winced. He'd ridden a horse without a saddle before, but usually they weren't _both_ bare. He was wearing no drawers, and he felt quite exposed and a little tangled up. The thought of hours on the back of this horse, and all the chafing that would likely result had him cringing to himself. To top that off, the nun's habit rode up to show his hairy legs and bare feet, and he felt like a complete dolt.

Unaware of the situation beneath his habit, Summer walked over to the horse, looking up at him expectantly. Kimball reached one strong arm down to pull her up behind him. The horse wobbled a bit in its footing and gave a low whinny, unused to the added weight.

Summer faced a similar problem with her milky white legs exposed, but Kimball had no problem with that particular view, up until his physical reaction made itself painfully known. He shifted uncomfortably on the prickly horse hair, trying to reach surreptitiously beneath the habit to adjust himself. Summer caught on immediately and he felt her slim form tremble with silent mirth against his back. She put her arms tightly around his waist, one hand still clutching their bundle of food, and he felt her warm laughter near his ear. He shivered, and promptly became even less comfortable.

"First order of business before we leave this godforsaken village is to find some proper breeches and boots."

"Why Sir Kimball, that would entail stealing, for I have no money. Do you?"

"No," he said simply, since his purse had been taken along with his clothes, but he offered no alternatives to theft.

"Hmmm," purred Summer. "Perhaps there is hope for you yet."

She couldn't see his face, but would have been delighted to know that Kimball was grinning so widely his dimples showed, a rare sight indeed.

_Aw, sweet Summer…if you only knew the half of it…_

Wasting no more time, Kimball dug his heels into the sides of the old mare and they rode out into the moonlight.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The dungeon of Hartshorne Castle smelled strongly of piss and unwashed bodies. It was dark and cold now that night had fallen, and the barred window high on the wall barely let in any fresh air, and only a sliver of moonlight. Teresa sat alone in a corner of her cell, the cleanest spot she could find in the dirty old straw. Being so close to the moat, moisture seemed to seep up through the stone floor. She was fairly certain she could hear the scurrying of rats among the rushes, and the disgust distracted her a bit from the burning wound in her arm.

She and Rigsby had been down there for hours with still no word from Jane. He'd literally disappeared.

"Rigsby?"

"Hmm?" replied her friend from the neighboring cell.

"Do you think we'll get out of this alive?"

"I've been here nigh on five years, milady," interrupted another voice from the cell on the other side of hers. "And I'm still alive."

"Thanks for the encouragement, Sam Bosco," replied Teresa. Although, being here five years wasn't actually something to be happy about.

"What did you do to get thrown in here?" asked Rigsby.

"I killed a man who was a friend of Lord Craig's. The man had raped my wife's sister, and Lord Craig had only laughed. He was going to get away with it, and that didn't sit well with me. I used to be part of the royal guard, a trusted knight. The only reason he's kept me alive was because my family is wealthy, with a lot of influence over other lords. He's used sparing my life as blackmail to get them to exert that influence. So, here I sit."

"I'm sorry," said Teresa sincerely. She understood full well what it was like to have to go against the law in order to do the right thing. She supposed she'd been lucky not to have been caught before now.

"Ah, milady. It's those with the right blood that run this world. Nothing we can do but sit on our arses and wait for their pleasure."

"That's not true," she said. Although hours before she had not been locked away in a dungeon. Now, she supposed her future was a little more uncertain. "We've been fighting against that very thing. If the prince gets us out of here…"

"The prince? What prince?"

"The Prince of Maliborough. I have faith he will come for me, and when he does, you…you can come with us."

"Lady Teresa—"Rigsby protested. They didn't know this man from Adam. He'd had five years to come up with any number of heartbreaking stories that would explain his imprisonment. Besides, he was an admitted murderer, no matter how justified.

Sam chuckled. "Thank you, milady. But your man is right to be suspicious. You shouldn't trust anyone—especially those in dungeons."

"We'll discuss this later, Rigsby," said Teresa tightly.

The three of them lapsed into silence, and Teresa tried to sleep. Her arm was killing her though, and she had already torn a length of fabric from her skirt to re-bandage it and to fashion a rough sling. She tried to occupy her mind by thinking of yesterday—was it only yesterday?-lying in Patrick's arms as the rain beat down upon the barn roof. How heavenly had that been. She was in grave danger of falling in love with that man, and it was terrifying since they'd only met a few days before. How could it possibly be love? Lust, certainly, she acknowledged, blushing to herself.

Soon, she heard the loud snoring from both men on either side of her.

She was just drifting off herself when she heard a metallic noise, as if someone was leaning against the iron door and rattling it. _Probably Rigsby, _she thought sleepily.

Then she heard a slight rustling near her, and felt the hay move beside her.

_Damn rats! _

She pulled what was left of her skirts more tightly around her legs to try to protect herself from being bitten.

From nowhere came the feeling of a hand on her mouth and a man's breath in her ear. It was so dark, she couldn't see who had her, let alone how they'd gotten into the cell with her.

"Shh," came a familiar voice near her ear. "Teresa, be still. It's me."

"Hmm?" she said against the hand covering her lips. It sounded like Patrick, but she could see nothing, only feel his body holding hers

"I'm going to release you, but you have to stay quiet. Trust me." She nodded, and immediately, the weight across her mouth was gone.

"Patrick?" she whispered. "Where are you? I can't see you it's so dark."

"You can't see me because I'm not visible to your eyes."

She looked in the direction of his softly uttered words. "Magic?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Is that what happened to you in the throne room? You were there one moment, then gone the very next."

"I don't know exactly how I've been able to sustain it this long, but I knew I had to wait to find you when the castle was asleep. I slipped the key from the dungeon guard, and got inside. The problem is, I can't just walk out with you. I don't know the spell to make you invisible too. I should have stuck with my lessons, I'm afraid," he said wryly.

"What about your plan to put everyone to sleep?"

He chuckled softly. "I already did that earlier. I guess you didn't realize it, but I froze time for you for perhaps ten minutes before the spell wore off. It was then that I confronted Red John, the man who killed my family."

She gasped, shocked at both pieces of news. "We were asleep? It worked then. But you didn't warn me first so I could have shut my eyes against it like we planned."

"Sorry," said the disembodied voice sheepishly. "The whole place had gone to hell and I had to do something. Anyway, I lack the power to use such a massive spell again. Believe me, I've tried many times since this morning, and nothing. I guess I have to be well-rested for it to work again. I've hidden in a closet most of the day in case my invisibility wore off, but so far, it's lasted longer than any spell I've ever used."

"My father? Your sister? Have you seen them, told them you were here?"

"No. Neither of them have been alone for a minute, but I was able to watch them. They are both as well as can be expected. I also saw the queen. Once I get you and Rigsby out of here—"

"What?" she said, more loudly than she'd intended. She lowered her voice as her dungeon mates shifted and snorted a little in their sleep. "We can't leave here without my father."

"I thought you might say that," he said dryly. "But listen to me, your wound needs to be seen to or you could lose that arm to infection. I'll come back when I'm able to use the sleeping spell again and take back what's ours. They won't be harmed, I'm certain of it, or they would already be dead."

"But—"

"Shh, no arguing this time."

"Jane—"

Then another weight pressed over her mouth, and she felt the moist heat of the prince's lips on hers. She opened to him, felt his tongue touching hers as a small noise emerged from her throat. Their time in the barn came rushing back, and she wanted him with a sudden, white-hot passion that completely blotted out her painful injury.

"Jane," she murmured, when his lips left her mouth to drift to her ear. He nibbled lightly on the delicate lobe before his sensual voice made her shiver anew.

"As much as I'd like to revisit our other recent rendezvous in the hay, my sweet, this cesspool lacks the romance of your barn, not to mention the sanitation. Besides," he said, his hand cupping her breast, "I'd like to get us out of here before I reappear and we're discovered."

"Oh," she said, oddly disappointed about the prospect of leaving the dungeon and his strong arms. He pulled away from her, and being unable to see him, she could almost imagine that his presence had been a vivid dream. "What are you going to do? You said it is too heavily guarded for us to simply walk out."

"Wake Rigsby," he said. "And I'll show you."

Teresa reached through the bars to jostle Rigsby awake. "Jane is here," she said. "He's figured a way out."

"Jane?" He said, standing and squinting into the darkness. "Where?"

"Here," replied the prince. "I've used a spell that makes me invisible, but I am definitely here, sharing this lovely ambiance with you. Try your cell door; it is unlocked. Then, come in here with us."

When Rigsby joined them, Jane turned to the outside wall. He raised his hands, and a thin stream of blue fire burst forth, lighting the room with an azure glow. He followed the mortar around four giant stones, the rays burning into them like a hot knife through butter. After a few minutes of sustained energy, he had to stop, and he stood there, now fully visible, panting with the effort.

"I can see you now," said Teresa in surprise.

"I suppose I cannot do two spells at once for long. No need for it now; I think I've done it. Help me, Rigsby."

The two men went to the wall. They both made the mistake of touching the heated rocks with their bare hands first, and drew away with a gasp at the burns they received. After some understandable cursing, they were forced to wait several precious minutes before it was cool enough to touch.

Jane and Rigbsy put their combined muscle into it then, pushing on the stones with all their mite. They dislodged the top stone first, letting it fall into the distant moat with a splash. They continued in this way, straining against the heavy obstacles until there remained a hole in the wall wide enough to barely pass through. Rigsby's height would be a slight disadvantage, but his thin frame would make up for it.

"I hope you can swim," said Jane gleefully, looking at the ten-foot drop into the moat.

"Wait," said Teresa. "What if it's filled with sharpened stakes, or crocodiles?"

"It's not," came the voice of Sam Bosco. "Queen Hightower had it drained and cleaned of sewage right before Lord Craig took over, may the bastard rot in Hell. Last I knew of, only swans swim in it."

"Who is this?" asked Jane suspiciously. Teresa made brief introductions, then told Jane of her offer to help him escape. "Are you sure enough of this stranger to allow him in our company? He could very well be a spy for Red John."

"Red John? Ha. You mean the man who killed your wife and bairn, eh, Prince? I'm no bloody wizard's patsy, I assure you."

"Do I know you, sir?"

"No, but I was there the very day it happened. Saw it with my own eyes—it was one of the most horrible things I've ever witnessed, and I was a soldier. I'd been sent by the queen to deliver your birthday present that day."

"What did you bring?" asked Jane, testing the man.

"Jewel encrusted swords, Your Highness. Queen Hightower herself had had them commissioned for you so they were perfectly balanced to fit your hand."

The prince regarded the man in the dim light, evaluating in only seconds the honor and trustworthiness of this imprisoned knight.

"Sir Bosco," Jane finally said with a smile. "Can you swim?"

"Like a bloody fish, Your Highness."

He walked to the cell and gave Bosco the keys. "Let yourself out then, and be free. Join us or not, it is up to you."

"We could certainly use an extra hand," said Teresa, "given how mine is not very useful these days."

"I thank you all, but once I'm free, I'm finding my wife and leaving this hellish country."

"You always have a place in Maliborough, sir."

"Then if we all get out of this alive, I may well see you there, Your Highness."

The group turned toward the hole. "Who's first?" asked Rigsby with a gulp, peering out at the dark water. The moon reflected perfectly on its still surface.

"We must go and go quickly, one after another. The first splash might alert the watch," suggested Bosco.

"I'll go first," said the prince. He kissed Teresa on the cheek for luck, then jumped, hitting the surface of the water feet first, lessening the splash. Teresa held her breath as she waited for him to resurface. He did soon after, giving them a wave and a grin before he swam to the other side of the wide moat.

Rigsby helped Teresa slide through the hole, and she stood poised a moment, struck suddenly with the knowledge that landing hard in the water would hurt her arm like hell. It couldn't be helped, though, she supposed, and jumped after the prince. Rigsby went next, the frigid water a shock to the system. He heard a last splash behind him and then they were all swimming—Rigsby helping the injured Teresa—to the shore. Surprisingly, no alarm came, and they managed to slip away from the castle toward their hidden horses, who hopefully were still hidden and waiting for them.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

From the top of the keep, the Red Wizard watched in amusement as he allowed his prey to slip away unmolested. No matter; Lord Craig had the princess, which ensured that the prince would return. His hand went to his chest, which had by then completely healed.

"Another day, Prince Patrick, when you are more up to the challenge," he said to the air. "Another day, very soon."

A/N: Thanks for reading. If I survive tonight's episode, perhaps I'll get a tag our for you.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I'd just like to thank you all for hanging in there with me, for your kind reviews and support. Also, thanks to those who I see are going back and reading my older fics and blessing me with your favorites. Thanks so much! I only wish you would log in and allow me to respond to your kindness.

Now, on to…

**Chapter 11**

They had ridden a good five miles at a hard gallop when Prince Patrick noticed Teresa was listing to the side in the saddle. Rigsby was in the lead and Patrick took up the rear. They'd been in such a rush to get away that he'd had little time to do more than quickly kiss her and help her into the saddle. She hadn't seemed too bothered by her arrow wound, but then again, he knew she was not one to complain. So, when she started to fall sideways, Patrick sent out a cry to Rigsby to slow down.

The prince rode up quickly to ride alongside her horse.

"Teresa!" he cried, grabbing the reins of her horse in an attempt to slow it down.

With his other hand, he pushed on her back in an awkward attempt to right her in her seat. By this time, Rigsby had circled back and grabbed the other side of Teresa's horse's reins, and Patrick pulled Teresa from her horse and onto his own to sit in front of him.

All three horses slowed to a stop, and Patrick peered down at Teresa in the moonlight, feeling the surprising heat emanating from her body.

"She's burning up," he told Rigsby.

Rigsby dismounted and held his hands up to take Teresa from him so he could get down too. He lay her down gently on the ground, and Patrick took her arm out of the improvised sling.

"Teresa?" he said, shaking her a little. She moaned softly, but otherwise didn't respond.

Rigsby ran and got the lantern, which hung from his saddle. By this time, Patrick had gently unwrapped her wound, only to gasp at how inflamed it had become, streaks of red running beneath the skin of her arm, away from the angry and jagged gash.

"Good God," muttered Rigsby.

"How could it have gotten so infected so quickly?"

"Likely there was something on the arrow," Rigsby replied gravely. "The sudden exercise moved it along through her blood."

The two men looked at the small woman on the ground, important to each of them for completely different reasons. One felt brotherly affection; the other, a deepening emotion that he was too afraid yet to fully define. Then they looked at each other, their faces etched in fear. Infection often meant either loss of limb or, just as likely, death.

"I'll get her some water," Rigsby said. "But we should get her home and to the surgeon as soon as possible."

"Teresa," he said again, lightly tapping one heated cheek. "Please, wake up."

"Patrick?" she replied, so softly he wasn't sure at first he'd heard her. "So…hot…"

"I know, my sweet."

But her eyelids remained closed; too heavy to lift them. Rigsby arrived again with a leather flask of water, and Patrick held her slight body up so she could drink. The moment she felt the cool water at her lips, she drank heartily for a moment, then fell back into his lap, exhausted. He tore another strip off her slowly dwindling skirt, wet the material, still damp from their recent swim, and bathed her hot brow.

"Your Highness," said Rigsby. "It's best we move on, get her home."

Patrick nodded. "I'll mount if you'll hand her up to me."

"Of course."

A few minutes later, they were riding again, Teresa lying boneless across Patrick's lap. Rigsby took the lead again, Teresa's horse tethered to his saddle. Patrick felt himself nearly paralyzed with fear, horrible thoughts whirling through his head. He couldn't lose her, the strongest, bravest, most exciting woman he had ever known. In a matter of days, she had taken him from a world of numbness, a sort of half-existence, and given him a reason to rejoin fully the world of the living.

Until the moment he'd met her, Grace had been his sole motivation for rising from his bed each day. When she'd been called to marry Lord Craig, he'd seen before him a life completely void of purpose. Now, with this small woman, trembling with fever in hi arms, he had found his life again. Would the universe be so cruel as to take her from him, after all the pain he'd endured?

And then there was Grace, still trapped back at Hartshorne Castle, still destined to marry the man responsible for Teresa's pain. And Teresa's father, already sickly, awaited his fate in the tower with the Queen. It was a colossal mess, and even with the magic he'd been gifted with, Patrick could think of no way to save any of them. He pulled Teresa's limp body more tightly against his, kissing the top of her head with an aching grimace.

"Hold on, my love," he whispered, the word leaving his lips for the first time in five years for a woman who was not his sister. It was so natural to say that he hadn't even realize he'd said it.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Another two hours found them back at Teresa's cottage, Rigsby only pausing to help the prince get her into the house to her bed. He rode again like the wind to find the surgeon. Patrick carefully undressed Teresa, shuttering when she groaned at his awkward manipulations to get her arms out of her dress. He removed her undergarments, struck anew at her small but perfect form, chastising himself for remembering how wonderful it had felt to be joined with her.

"Not the time, old man," he chided himself, but found a smile when she mindlessly murmured his name.

He bathed her as best he could with a clean cloth, washing away the moat water and the grime from the road. He gently cleaned her wound, but she moaned and thrashed with each touch. It was difficult to hold her down so he could complete the task gently. He remained struck by how hot her skin was, how he had to continually rewet the cloth in order to cool her. He pulled up the sheet to cover her nakedness, then sat wretchedly beside her on the bed.

He thought of Red John, how he'd healed himself from a bullet wound, how he'd claimed to have saved his mother from death. Patrick didn't know these spells, had never learned the mystical art of healing. He knew he possessed magic within him, so he focused all his thoughts on Teresa's arm. A slight blue glow surrounded her, and she even rose up slightly from the bed. But nothing else seemed to change and he gently broke the spell. She landed softly again on the white sheet, and he put his hands in his hair in despair.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Rigsby arrived with the village surgeon an hour later, an old German man named Steiner, and his raven-haired young assistant he called Partridge. Steiner was tall and very thin, bespectacled, and appeared to be suffering from some unnamed illness of his own. Partridge, on the other hand, seemed spritely and unnaturally excited to see an injured woman. He followed behind the surgeon like a puppy, carrying the doctor's bag and a small box.

Patrick led the men to Teresa's bedchamber, and Steiner raised Teresa's arm slightly, squinting at the wound. He nodded.

"Poison arrow, all right." He felt her head with a weathered hand. "Fever too." He turned to Rigsby. "Go boil water for some willow bark tea," he ordered brusquely. Rigsby glanced in mild amusement at the prince, then went off to do as he was told.

Steiner looked over at Patrick. "Did you clean her wound, boy?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm," he hummed noncommittally.

Patrick was dying to know if he had done a good job, if she would survive this. He waited while Steiner continued his examination, and the prince found he didn't like how Partridge was looking at Teresa. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the young man seemed to be inordinately fascinated with the look of the grotesque wound.

"Will we have to take the arm?" Partridge asked with barely suppressed anticipation. Patrick looked at the man in horror, but the surgeon seemed oblivious to the prince's dismay.

"Not if the leeches work. Put them on her like I showed you."

"Yes, Master Steiner," said Partridge, sounding oddly disappointed.

From the small box, Partridge removed the wormlike creatures, placing them around the edges of Teresa's wound. Though Patrick knew this was a sound treatment, it was still difficult for him to watch as the little blood suckers worked at the infected areas, increasing the blood flow so that the poison would pass more quickly away from the wound and into their tiny mouths.

"Look at those little beauties," muttered Partridge in admiration of the bloodletting.

"I think you enjoy your work a little too much, my friend," said Patrick in disgust. "You're a ghoul."

"A man should take pleasure in his work," Steiner defended his assistant.

Patrick could only shake his head and comfort himself by reaching for Teresa's other hand. Rigsby arrived with the water and Steiner instructed Partridge to prepare the tea. They were able to rouse Teresa enough to get her to drink a little, but she seemed unaware of what was going on around her.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The leeches did their work, but Teresa seemed to have slipped into a coma. The swelling and infection had gone down, but enough poison had made it to her brain that she was not responding at all anymore, her breathing shallow.

"She'll keep her arm, but she may never wake up," Steiner told them.

"What? There has to be something you can do."

"She's in God's hands now. Where is her father?"

"Away," replied Patrick.

"Too bad," commented Steiner.

Partridge shot Patrick a grin that seemed somehow triumphant. He'd never felt so strong a need to punch someone before. Steiner gathered up his things, preparing to leave. Rigsby, who had been watching the scene helplessly, moved to see the surgeon out. Partridge stood back a moment, until he was alone in the room with Patrick and the unnaturally still patient.

"Red John sends his condolences," he murmured, but before Patrick could process what he'd said, the man was gone from the room. The prince got up from his seat on the bed and ran to the door.

"Wait!" he cried. He went to the stairs and Rigsby was just closing the door behind them. Patrick threw himself in the way of Rigsbsy's pulling down the bar, and he swung the heavy door wide. He looked out onto the moonlit lane, the surgeon and his irksome apprentice nowhere to be seen.

"Who were those people?" He asked Rigsby, coming back inside in defeat.

"Steiner's been the surgeon in Sacraham for years. Partridge—I've never seen him before."

"He was sent by Red John; I'm sure of it."

Rigsby looked startled. The wizard who'd killed the prince's family, whom he'd seen recover from a gunshot wound right before his eyes, had sent Partridge to them?

"How can that be?" he asked.

"He plainly said as much," replied Patrick. "That devil has his demons everywhere." Then his eyes widened in terror when he realized something else. "I'll bet he gave her something to prevent her from waking up."

"But you were in there every minute, Your Highness. Did you see him do anything harmful?"

"No, but that doesn't mean he didn't use magic that I _couldn't_ see. So help me, if Teresa dies because of that…"

"No. We can't afford to think that way. We must pray. Perhaps she'll be better in the morning."

"Pray all you want, Sir Rigsby. I learned long ago that there is no God."

Rigsby watched the man climb sadly up the stairs

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was in the wee hours of the morning, and Teresa had not awakened. Patrick had fallen asleep with his head resting on her stomach. Something had invaded his dreamless sleep, and he sat up, disoriented. He looked down at Teresa's still form. She was so beautiful, he thought, like the famed Juliet under the spell of the Friar's potion. He touched her lips lightly with his own, hoping like the fairy tales told that she would awaken from his kiss. But nothing changed, except his anguish multiplied tenfold. He squeezed his eyes shut, laying his head on her breasts and clasping her limp hands, shaking as silent tears fell down his cheeks.

He allowed himself a few moments of despair, then wiped his face, sat up, and stretched, groaning a little at his stiff back. He'd made a decision in the night. If Teresa did not awaken by morning, he would go back to Hartshorne, rescue his sister and Sir Minelli by any means possible, utilizing every bit of magic he'd ever known. He would confront Red John and kill him with his bare hands if he had to, magic be damned. He no longer cared for his own life, for it would mean nothing with Teresa gone, with his sister imprisoned in a loveless marriage.

He was just going toward the door to ready himself for his journey when the room suddenly filled with a faint red glow, and then Red John appeared as if from nowhere. Patrick raised his hands to send a volt of energy at the unwanted guest, but the wizard held up his own hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Easy, my vengeful lad. I come in peace."

Patrick forestalled the attack, but his hands remained at the ready. "There is no peace when you are here. Have you come to finish the job? Your toady nearly finished it for you."

"Aw, you met my pet Partridge. He did nothing that Lord Craig's guard hadn't already done to her with his poisoned arrow. No, I've come to see how I can help."

Patrick didn't believe any of his denials, and certainly not his proposal to _help_. He was responsible for all of it, in one way or another. Red John was looking now at Teresa, insincere sympathy lining his face. "She will die soon, I'm afraid. I have seen many who fall into this living death. They die of either thirst or starvation, a slow, painful way of it." He shook his head in mock sadness, though a smile still hovered at the corners of his deep red lips.

"Not if I can help it," said Patrick tightly. "I will find another wizard—a _good_ wizard—to teach me how to magically heal her."

"Ha," Red John said in amusement. "You think there are any good wizards who deal with death? Those are the dark arts, Prince. Nothing good comes with manipulating the natural order of things."

"Yes," said Patrick weightily. "I have seen this first hand."

"But, as I said—I can help. I saved your mother, didn't I?"

"But at what price? The only person I love besides Teresa is my sister. I'm not willing to lose either one of them, least of all to an iniquitous deal with you."

Red John's expression turned sly. "What if we made a different deal? What if I were to free Sir Minelli, free your sister, save your beloved Teresa, all in one fell swoop? What would you give then?"

Patrick looked at the wizard, arrayed in the color of blood, steeped in such evil that the prince felt it exuding from him in frightening waves. He had no doubt Red John could deliver on any promises, but it was the price he must pay that had him recoiling at the very idea of it.

"There are other ways," said Patrick.

"You must be thinking of your father's armies, eh? You could go back to him and have him send his best knights to fight for the freedom of Princess Grace. But you forget, your father signed a contract; he won't break it. He sacrificed your wife and his grandchild to keep his word. As for his armies—Lord Craig is much better prepared that Maliborough to fight a war. And many people die in wars, Your Highness. Many more than three," he finished pointedly.

Red John had him in a corner, and he knew it. War would also not save Teresa.

"What would be the price of your saving three people for me?"

Patrick cringed at the faintly triumphant expression that passed over the wizard's pale face.

"One person only…You."

"Me?" said Patrick in surprise.

"Yes, Your Highness. You would become my apprentice. I would teach you to live up to all of your potential. You would be the _second _greatest wizard the world has ever known," he said with an ironic grin.

The prince's mind was racing. After the last few days, he realized how much he wanted to learn more magic. He was planning to seek out other wizards anyway. He hated Red John deep down to his very soul—if he had one. Red John was a great wizard, though the idea of learning dark magic was frightening to him. He could resist the darkness, couldn't he? But the real question was, could he sacrifice himself for Teresa, Grace and Sir Minelli? Yes, he thought. To save them—it was a small price to pay.

"I would have your word—all of them free, all of them safely home, all of them well?"

"Yes, of course," replied the wizard. "Oh, and one rather minor detail…"

Prince Patrick tensed.

"None of them would have any memory of the last few days. Teresa and Minelli would forget you had ever been here, along with anyone who might have seen you or Grace in recent days. It would be like your trip had never occurred."

"What?" His eyes flew to Teresa. She would forget him? Forget the one night they'd spent in each other's arms? Forget how they'd found one another after so many years of heartache and loneliness?

"An unfortunate side-effect, I know. But think of all the good your sacrifice would bring. The war you would avoid. Your sister's lifetime of happiness you could ensure. And you would become more powerful than you ever dreamed. That in itself would be worth it all, I would think."

Patrick turned his back to the wizard, needing a moment to process this proposition without having to look directly into the face of evil. He looked down at Teresa, knowing that her life could likely be measured in days if she did not wake up, and something told him that Red John had all but ensured that.

Maybe it would have been better for her had they never met. Her father would still be here to live out his life in freedom and comfort, surrounded by his children. She would not have sustained her injury, would not be lying here, waiting to die. As for _his_ life without her…he had lived five years with a grief no man should ever have to bear. It would be another time of tremendous emotional suffering, but at least he wouldn't be living with the guilt of her death weighing upon him.

He turned back to face the wizard, his features set in determination. "I will do it, if you will keep your end of the bargain, just as you said."

Red John did not try to hide his smile this time. He inclined his head respectfully.

"As you wish, Your Highness."

A/N: And so, Patrick has made a deal with the devil. Yes, I've stolen from Faust, and from _Once Upon a Time. _ I told you I would blatantly rip off any tale I chose. Also, the use of leeches here may not be exactly medically correct, but neither were other forms of bleeding at the time. I felt leeches were slightly less disgusting than simply cutting and bleeding. Yuck!

Next chapter, a bit of comic relief with SumCho. Thanks for reading.

Now, the countdown continues for the season finale. Deep breaths, people. Deep breaths…


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: So, we all survived the finale, lol. I'm enjoying reading all the great tags out there. Keep them coming! I hope you got the chance to read mine. Apparently, Ashley Gable personally confirmed via Twitter that my speculation about Jane and Loralei was correct. For you naysayers, I feel totally vindicated, lol.

I know some of you are very worried about this fic. Let not your heart be troubled. This is a fairy tale, and what do fairy tales always have? That's right: happy endings. This will be no different, so please don't despair. Even Cinderella and Snow White had bad days before their happy endings.

This chapter is much lighter than the last, for the most part, so I'll allow you to breathe a little before I get back to the darker action. Thanks for all the great reviews. I'll answer them very soon.

**Chapter 12**

They were fortunate, Summer and Kimball, to have found a forgotten clothesline in the village. In place of two pairs of breeches and rough linen tunics, hung the incongruous red garments of the Sisters of the Sacred Eye. Some busy wife hadn't gathered her clothes in off the line before nightfall. Summer couldn't help but laugh at the probable look on the hausfrau's face the next day when she saw nuns' habits instead of homespun on the lines. Hopefully, she'd be able to sell them somewhere, but likely she wouldn't even try for the inherent blasphemy of such a transaction.

"I'll send someone back here with payment when I get back to Sacraham," Kimball had whispered moments before from his place behind some bushes. He and Summer would both have to wear men's clothing, a prospect Kimball hadn't fully prepared for until he saw the outline of Summer's legs beneath the rolled up breeches. Too bad they hadn't hung boots on the line. Both now fully clothed, they stood regarding one another.

Kimball's eyes followed her petite yet shapely figure beneath the baggy borrowed clothing, all the way up to the shock of white hair hanging like pale silk to her waist. It glowed ethereally in the moonlight. He gulped, feeling his attraction to her as sharply as a stab in the gut.

"I thought novices had to cut off their hair," he said curtly, shooting her a question rather than the compliment he was too shy to give. She reached up a self-conscious hand to smooth the platinum locks.

"I couldn't do it," she said. "I told the nuns I had, though. It's been torture to sleep in my veil and wimple these past six months so that Sister Kristina wouldn't see. She probably thought I was being especially pious."

Kimball shook his head, squatting down to roll up his own too-long breeches above his still bare feet.

"'Beauty is vain, but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.' Proverbs 31:30." Kimball quoted with a faint smirk.

"'The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose,'" shot back Summer triumphantly. "William Shakespeare."

Kimball laughed aloud, and Summer smiled in admiration of the dimples that appeared as if by magic in his cheeks. A dog began barking nearby, and Summer instinctively placed a small hand over his mouth. At the first touch of his lips on her palm, they both stilled, going wide-eyed as they looked at each other. Her breathing hitched at their closeness, and Kimball's heart picked up speed. Slowly, she dropped her hand, but Kimball seemed enthralled now by her proximity.

He reached out and touched a lock of her tempting tresses. "I'm glad you didn't cut it," he said softly, finding the courage at last to say something complimentary.

She grinned. "So you _are_ capable of saying kind things," she teased. He met her dark eyes again, fathomless in the dimness.

"When they're warranted," he said. He felt himself taking a step closer, but the damn dog barked, so he became immediately detached again. "We should be going."

They'd hung up the nun's apparel and went to their horse, which Kimball had tethered to their changing bushes. It would have been nice to have found a saddle, but Kimball didn't want to waste any more time in the village. Besides, now with the protective covering of his most sensitive areas, he felt he could bear the horse's bare back now. He grabbed hold of the reins and jumped upon the animal, then reached a muscular arm down to hoist Summer behind him again.

"Thank you," she whispered near his ear. He felt the familiar stirring of desire, but he resolutely tamped it down. Maliborough was still two days away, and he'd better learn to control his reaction to the former harlot, or he'd spend those days on top of her rather than astride this aging horse.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Just before dawn, they had ridden far enough that Kimball thought they could slow down. Besides, the old horse was naturally slowing its pace anyway, and Summer had kept complaining that she needed to relieve herself. He took them off the road and back among the trees. They could hear the faint running of a stream and they dismounted, leading the horse and its riders to drink. The grass was cold beneath Kimball's feet, and he swore every time he stepped on a hidden rock. Summer smiled secretly at his discomfort.

They knelt down and brought water to their mouths from cupped hands, and Kimball watched the sky begin to lighten above the distant hills.

"It smells so heavenly here," Summer exclaimed, realizing with pleasure that they'd alighted in a field of lavender.

"Nice," he said, when she'd gathered a bunch and held it to his nose. Then he sneezed, and she laughed, her eyes crinkling merrily.

He drank his fill and sat back, his hand going to his still aching head. The pounding of the road had taken its toll, and he decided to lie all the way down in the grass while his companion washed her face and hands, then slipped off to find an acceptable tree.

It felt like it had only been a few moments, but by the position of the sun when he awoke, he saw it must have been an hour at least. A pleasant weight warmed his side, and he saw that Summer had lain beside him, resting her blonde head on his chest. She was breathing deeply, obviously asleep, and he stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and allowed them both a few minutes' more rest. He glanced over and saw that she had thoughtfully tied their stolen horse to a tree, and it munched its breakfast lazily.

How long had it been since a beautiful woman had slept at his side? _Too long_, he mused, admiring her lovely hair in the morning light. All around them it did smell heavenly, but nothing compared to the sweet smell of the fairy child curled around him. He hated to do this, but they really needed to be up and moving.

"Summer," he whispered into her hair.

"Hmmm?" she murmured, still half-asleep. Her hand on his chest moved in what was clearly a caress, and he knew she must be able to hear the pounding of his heart beneath her ear. She rolled to her stomach to face him, her brown eyes soft and sleepy. He reached up to pull a sprig of lavender from her long hair, and his hand lingered in its softness. His gaze went from her eyes to her sensually shaped lips and back again.

"Do you want to kiss me, Kimball?"

He was momentarily startled by the bold question, but Kimball was nothing if not forthright.

"Yes," he said simply.

That was all the encouragement she needed. She practically crawled on top of him, the better to press her lips to his. At first it was just a gentle pressure, and their eyes drifted slowly shut, but then her small pink tongue traced the seam of his mouth, begging entrance. He opened for her, and welcomed her seeking tongue inside. Things grew very heated very quickly, and Kimball was more surprised with himself than with Summer's enticing undulations as she climbed further up his body. This sudden, uncontained lust was very unlike him; he who was usually so very in control.

His hands went to her head, holding back her curtain of hair as he delved more deeply into her mouth. He was suffused with the heady scent of lavender, the feel of her small, warm body, the taste of her honeyed lips and tongue. He heard a distant moan, realized it was his, then drew forth a moan from her when his hips lifted slightly into hers. There was no clearer indication that he wanted her.

Kimball's hands slid to her back, slipping beneath her tunic to find smooth, bare skin. She shivered against him, broke away from his lips to bury her face in the warmth of his neck. She rained kisses there, then moved to his earlobe, taking it between her teeth and giving him a gentle nip. He bucked up against her and she breathed a laugh into his ear. His hands tightened on her back and he moved his head to try to ensnare her teasing lips again.

Suddenly, all of Kimball's frenetic movements stopped, and he sat up abruptly, causing Summer to roll unceremoniously to the ground.

"Kimball!" she said with a surprised bark.

"This isn't right," he said, looking around him as if in a daze.

Summer sat up, panting with unfulfilled desire. She immediately became angry.

"Is it because I'm a prostitute?" she bit out. "I don't want your money."

But he wasn't really looking at her, not really seeing anything at all. She moved to her knees to look at his bewildered expression in the soft morning light.

"Kimball?" She waved a hand before his face. "What is it?"

"Why am I here?"

"What?"

"Where are we?"

Summer's first thought was that his head had been more injured than she'd thought, and she was feeling guilty that she might have encouraged their escape before he was ready to travel. Had she caused more permanent damage?

"We're just off the road leading to Maliborough Castle," she said slowly, as to a half-witted child.

"Maliborough?" And his eyes once again focused on her concerned face. He remembered riding in the rain, remembered the fall from the bridge. Remembered the last two days in the abbey. Remembered Summer. But for the life of him, he couldn't imagine why he was going to Maliborough.

"Why?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "I don't really know. You said you had important business there. I suppose you didn't think you knew me well enough to tell me what it was." She couldn't help the slight petulance in her tone.

Kimball got to his feet, absently reaching down his hand to help her up.

"It doesn't feel right to go there now. I think… I should go back home to Sacraham."

Summer's eyes narrowed.

"_We_, Kimball. Don't you mean _we_?"

He looked at her now, really looked. Her hair was a tousled mess, purple stems intertwined throughout. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, and her too-large tunic hung to one side, baring one white shoulder. Despite his disorientation, he certainly knew what he wanted with her.

He reached for her arm. "Yes, _we_. I haven't forgotten our bargain. I just don't remember anything else important."

"That's all right. You had a nasty blow to the head. Maybe that's what's causing you to forget."

He nodded. That made sense. He found the bump on his head and rubbed it thoughtfully. "We'll go back to Sacraham. I'm sure my people there will be able to tell me why I was going to Maliborough."

"Fine with me, Sir Knight, so long as you take me with you." Her smile was flirtatious again, and she kissed his cheek consolingly. "It will come back to you, I'm sure. Just don't forget about me."

Her eyes sparkled up at him, and he grinned at the enticing picture she made.

"I don't see that happening," he told her.

He'd gladly forget everything else in this world, just to become lost again in her arms, in the heat of her intoxicating mouth. He leaned down and took her lips in a brief though passionate kiss, then grabbed her hand and guided her back to their waiting horse.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick hurried to beat the dawn, sneaking past Rigsby's sleeping form on the floor by the fire to go to the barn. He would re-hitch the horses, take every remnant of evidence that he and Grace had ever been there. Red John had told him the spell would begin at the rising of the sun, and he was to go back home to Maliborough to await the wizard's reappearance. Grace, he'd been assured, would be in her own bed that morning, awaken and not remember a thing that had passed. Likewise, Sir Minelli would be back in Sacraham, and Teresa would awaken, whole and healed, and free of any unpleasant memories. Or of him.

Leaving her had been the hardest thing he had done since watching the deaths of his family. He'd leaned down over her unconscious form, kissed her unresponsive lips. His eyes filled as he took in the features of her face, carefully committing them to memory. He didn't want to forget her, ever.

_Eyes, look your last, _he thought bitterly.

But this was the right thing—the only thing—to save her. He would rather die a thousand deaths himself than let her light leave this dark world.

"I love you, Teresa. No matter that you won't ever remember me, I'll take the memories of these few days with you to my grave. Go on and find someone to love, my sweet, but I swear no one will ever love you as much as I have. No one will ever admire your courage, your strength, your… exasperating stubbornness as much as I. No one."

He'd taken her limp body into his arms, absorbing her warmth for the cold days to come. He let her silken hair slide through his fingers, then, on a selfish whim, he laid her down again and reached for the scissors from her sewing box beside her bed. He reached for her hair again, snipping a good inch from beneath where it would hopefully go unnoticed.

"There," he said, smiling at his trophy. "I believe we are even now. A lock for a lock."

He folded it into one of her scented handkerchiefs. She might miss that, but he found he couldn't leave without some tangible proof that she'd existed for him, that this adventure with her hadn't been just a dream.

He kissed her yet again, then, noticing the faint lightening of the horizon outside her window, he squeezed her hand and left the room. The tears fell unchecked down his cheeks as Prince Patrick of Maliborough set out on the long road back home.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa awoke with a start, and she sat up in bed. She felt strangely chilled, and when she looked down at herself, was shocked to see she was completely naked beneath the sheets. She gasped, looking around her bedchamber as if she expected a rapist to emerge.

She thought for a moment about the night before, but for the life of her could not remember getting into this bed, let alone completely disrobing before doing so. She remembered that she and Rigsby and Kimball had ridden out in search of wealthy travelers on the road, easy prey whose coins would improve the lives of the villagers. But she didn't remember waylaying anyone, or even coming back home.

She shook her head at herself. She must have been exhausted. She almost felt like she'd been drinking, but she rarely engaged in that activity. She rose and found her nightrail and wrapper, then went to check on her father. Sir Minelli was still abed, his familiar even snores filling the room. She shut the door and went downstairs to start breakfast.

To add to the surprises of the morning, she beheld Sir Wayne Rigsby, sleeping soundly on a blanket by the hearth. Why would he be in her house? He lived just a mile down the road. She pulled her wrapper more tightly at her neck. She took a deep breath and walked over to Rigsby, lying shirtless and shoeless beneath her father's lap blanket. His long legs stuck out comically beneath the small covering, and she nudged his side with her bare foot.

"Rigsby," she said.

He groaned a little in sleep and she toed him a little harder. "Rigsby!"

"Grace?" he said, and he pulled himself from a dream of a beautiful princess with fiery red hair. The image disappeared forever the moment his eyes opened.

"No, trespasser, it's Teresa."

"Teresa?" He was awake now, and pulling up the blanket to hide his bare chest.

"What the hell—" His face reddened. "Excuse me, milady, but why am I sleeping on your floor?"

She shook her head. "I have no idea. What happened last night? Don't you remember either?"

He sat thoughtfully a moment, a befuddled frown knitting his brow. "No. My last memory is of you and Kimball and I setting out on a ride. Then…nothing. It makes no sense. Did I—I mean, were we drinking spirits last night?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

A thought occurred to him, and he blushed furiously. "Nothing happened…between, uh_, us_…did it?"

He almost looked hopeful beneath his embarrassment.

"No!" she protested, so vehemently as to be almost insulting. "I mean, of course not. Maybe Kimball remembers…I'll call on him later. I was about to fix breakfast for myself and Father. Are you hungry?" She smiled, knowing that answer already. Rigbsy's appetite was notorious.

"Yes, milady." He reached for his discarded shirt, and Teresa went back up to her room to dress and give him some privacy.

And so their day, having begun strangely, went on to be a normal one, with only the thought of the night's pursuits ahead to keep them occupied as they went about their morning chores.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it enough to write a review.

And hey, if you have a minute, why not go to the Paint It Red awards and vote for your favorite "Mentalist" fanfiction, authors, and art! I don't know how to make links work on this site, so it would be great if someone posted a link—check the reviews everyone! Or, do a search and you should be able to find it easily. Just create an account and vote! Fanfiction writers do work hard to entertain us; it would be nice if they could get some recognition for all the great reads they provide for us.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I'm back again! Not just to writing, but back home! Many of you know I was on holiday in Europe. What a wonderful time I had! It was beyond all my expectations. But you don't care about that, you just came here to read this belated chapter. I will caution you that there is some angst ahead, and some of you may hate me by the end of the chapter, and perhaps even wish I had stayed in Europe. But keep your eye on the prize and hang in there with me, and I promise you a happy ending.

**Chapter 13**

Halfway to Sacraham, the old nag finally just…stopped. She'd been limping a bit, and blowing harder and harder as the miles passed, until suddenly, she decided she simply would go no further.

Kimball dug his bare heels roughly into the horse's sides, while snapping the reins and ordering it to move along.

"Abusing the poor thing is not going to make her any younger," Summer said after a few moments of this, the familiar touch of irony in her tone.

Kimball sighed, suddenly tired of stubborn females. He looked over his shoulder at her. "I take it you don't mind walking the rest of the way."

"Well, she's obviously done with us, wouldn't you say? Let's let her free to finish out her life in that field across the way. That's what I'd like for myself one day."

"Well, if I ever get this old and useless, I'd want someone to shoot _me_," he said, his frustration with his recent memory loss, his intense desire for answers combining to make him sound heartless, even to his own ears.

Summer hopped nimbly down from the horse. "Now you're just being mean," she muttered, looking accusingly up to where he still sat the animal. She abruptly turned her back on him and was looking toward the flower dotted field she'd wished for the bloody horse.

Kimball closed his eyes tightly, then slowly dismounted, his bare feet landing on the dirt road. He turned to his companion and shook his head, watching her stubborn form as he turned her back on him, her white hair blowing in the gentle breeze. His mouth turning upward in resignation, he began walking past her, leading the now riderless horse toward the inviting meadow. He grimaced as he stepped on a jagged stone, then felt a briar dig into his heal as his feet left the road. He bent over and pulled the offending thorn out in annoyance and pain.

"It's easy for you to banish our only means of transportation; you've got shoes on."

But he removed the horse's bridle and bit, giving the animal an encouraging slap on its haunch. The horse, it's onerous load now gone, whinnied in seeming gratitude and trotted without any trace of a limp into the tall grass. Kimball looked upon its escape in renewed disgust.

"That horse was making fools of us," he complained. But he felt Summer's slight weight slamming into his back as she hugged him from behind, going on tiptoe to rain kisses on his broad shoulders and the back of his muscular neck.

"Thank you, Kimball," she said happily, her hands wandering to his taut stomach. He turned in her arms and claimed his reward from her smiling lips. This small woman was getting under his skin in a way no one had ever dared, and as he plundered her mouth he felt the danger of her power over him, but much to his surprise, he found himself reveling in it.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They'd been walking nearly two hours when the sound of an approaching carriage caught Kimball's attention. As it drew closer, emerging over a hill, he could see it bore the royal crest of Maliborough. A driver sat up in the box while a single outrider on horseback rode alongside. Just as Kimball and Summer stepped out of the way of the hurrying conveyance, the carriage came to a halt. The face of a blonde man, elegantly dressed, appeared in the window, and he looked upon Kimball with an expression of recognition. But that was impossible, thought Kimball, for he knew of no one of royal status from Maliborough.

"Hello, fellow travelers," called the man. "May I be of any assistance?" His blue-green eyes dropped to Kimball's shoeless feet, and he felt immediately self-conscious of their dirty state.

Kimball and Summer looked at each other in amazement, mainly because no royal would dane to lower himself to stop to talk to common peasants (for that is likely how they appeared) on the road. Not to mention the fact that this carriage was from Maliborough, the very place Kimball had apparently been headed before his accident, seemed too coincidental to Kimball's generally suspicious nature.

Kimball moved closer at the royal's gesture that they approach.

"We are fine, thank you, Your Highness," replied Kimball, years of experience at Hartshorne brining back his ingrained manners. He inclined his head respectfully, though this man was no prince of his. Summer gave a belated curtsy. The prince's answering smile seemed somehow melancholy.

"On your way back to Sacraham?" he asked conversationally.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Lost your horse and shoes, I see," he said dryly.

"Yes, Your—"

"Sir Karl, give the man your horse and boots," he called to his mounted knight. "You may ride up in the box with Ron."

"As you wish, Your Highness," replied Karl good-naturedly, used to his prince's unusual requests.

Kimball could only stare, so shocked was he. When Sir Karl presented him with his shiny riding boots, Kimball found his tongue.

"Pardon me, Your Highness, but have we met?"

A brief shadow crossed the prince's sunny face, and he smiled slightly, shaking his head in answer. "Not in this lifetime, I'm afraid," he replied cryptically. "But I know what it's like to need the help of strangers. And no man should be left in the road without shoes or a good horse beneath him…or his lady." He inclined his curly head to the woman.

Summer nudged Kimball with her elbow, and he took the shoes and the reins of the fine white stallion from the grinning knight.

"Thank you kindly, Your Highness," said Summer, curtsying low, though the sight was made somewhat less impressive by her lack of skirts.

"You're quite welcome, indeed. And who might you be, my lady?" the handsome man asked curiously.

"Summer, Your Highness," she said, giving him her best smile. He seemed to appreciate the sparkle in her eyes, the spirit he saw shining there. Unconsciously, Kimball drew Summer possessively closer to his side. The prince chuckled knowingly.

"Summer," mused the prince. "Thou art definitely more lovely and temperate than thy name implies."

Summer all but preened beneath his praise, an unusual blush tingeing her cheeks. "Thank you, Your Highness," she repeated, slanting a smug look toward Kimball. He barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes at the prince's flirtatious charm.

"I'll send your belongings back to Maliborough, Your Highness," Kimball said. "I'm very grateful and humbled." He bowed low.

This was a proud man, and the prince knew he would not have accepted the horse were it not for the comfort of his lady.

"No need for that. Keep them with the compliments of a fellow traveler. Have a safe journey home, Sir Kimball. Lady Summer," the prince said, rapping the ceiling the moment Sir Karl had climbed up into the box.

As they watched the carriage's departure amidst a cloud of dust, Kimball wracked his brain, trying to remember when exactly he'd given the prince his name, let alone mentioned where they'd been heading.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Prince Patrick settled back into the cushioned comfort of his carriage seat, his hand rubbing his face in renewed pain and exhaustion. He had been grateful upon entering Teresa's barn to find his men waiting for him, confused as to how they should be there, but thankfully no worse for wear. Their presence made him feel much less alone. Teresa had told him they'd been guarded by friends and Patrick had been set to release them after their fruitless trip to Hartshorne Castle.

Red John's spell had obviously worked, for he had found Sir Kimball heading back to Sacraham again, with no recognition passing over the man's emotionless face. The least Patrick could do was provide the man with his horse, to get him home safely to his mistress, Lady Teresa. The pretty baggage he'd picked up along the way seemed to somehow humanize Kimball, and Patrick smiled at the obvious handful the woman named Summer would be for the stoic former knight. At least someone had found lasting love out of this whole debacle.

"Aw, Teresa," he whispered for the thousandth time since leaving her side. "Too bad it wasn't meant to be for us…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

_**Three months later…**_

Lady Teresa was three months along when she'd realized she was with child. She'd missed her courses and decided it was no coincidence that her monthly time was three times past due since the morning she'd awakened with no memory of the night before. Being Catholic, she of course briefly thought of the virgin birth, but knowing the blasphemy of such thoughts, not to mention the fact she'd not had any angelic visitors lately, she decided she must have been visited by a man of the distinctly mortal variety. There was also the issue of her lack of virginity…

She'd gone over that missing day and night many times and for the life of her (and her unborn child) could not remember what had happened. She thought of her only other experience, with Sir Walter, and wondered if she'd drunk too much ale and invited him home with her (there would otherwise be no way a second joining with him have been possible). But when she'd tentatively approached the man in the street after learning of her condition, he seemed his usual, slightly annoying, flirtatious self. He gave no indication that they had spent a recent night together(which he no doubt would have done, gleefully), so unless he'd completely lost his memory too, it was a good bet Sir Walter was not the father of this baby. This of course left her with the obvious conclusion that she had shared a bed—or perhaps a hearth—with Rigsby.

Since he definitely couldn't remember either, it stood to reason that they had both partaken of something that had caused them to lower their inhibitions as well as their drawers. It would explain why they were both in various stages of undress that long ago morning, and why he had obviously stayed the night in her house. For the sake of her child's immortal soul, Teresa must not allow him to be born a bastard, so with great reluctance, in her third month of pregnancy, she'd gone to Rigsby's farm to find him outside splitting fire wood.

He'd stopped, imbedding the ax into a tree trunk, and wiped his brow. He grinned jovially as he always did upon seeing his boss. They'd had quite a lucky spate of thievery lately, and the money had done much to allow the townsfolk to buy produce and hay from neighboring villages. He figured she must be there to update him with plans for another night of work. The expression on her face was very serious, and he experienced a sudden tightening in his gut. Something had happened. Had someone died? His grin wavered.

"Good morning, Boss," he said tentatively.

"Good morning, Rigsby." She dismounted from her horse and walked hesitantly toward him.

It wasn't like her to seem so unconfident, and Rigsby's feeling of dread tripled in intensity.

"What's happened?" he asked gravely.

She sighed, toying nervously with her long braid. "You remember the night we, uh, couldn't remember?"

He cocked his head at her. Was this a trick question? "Uh…yes? I mean, no?"

She nodded rather impatiently. "Well, you asked me the next morning if we had—I mean, if we might have—oh, bloody hell!" She compressed her lips in frustration, unable to find the proper words.

RIgsby colored. "If we'd lain together?" he supplied, his voice rising a few octaves. He cleared his throat. "Why? Did you remember something?" His heart picked up speed.

She looked suddenly quite green, and before his very eyes, she ran to the closest tree and vomited copiously.

"Boss?" he said, coming to her side, standing helplessly as she heaved and groaned and grabbed her stomach. "Are you sick?" he asked inanely.

She glared at him. "You did this, you bastard! I'm carrying your child!"

Had she hit him with the abandoned ax he wouldn't have been more surprised.

"What?"

"You heard me! I'm with child! _Your_ child."

"But…how can that be? We couldn't have…you're like a sister to me." A sister he'd once fantasized about, but that didn't sound very good, so he held his tongue.

"And I think of you as a brother. But the fact remains, I'm going to have a baby, and your presence in my house that morning is the only possible explanation for it."

"Are you sure?"

Wrong question.

"What are you accusing me of, Rigsby? I'm no harlot." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and Rigsby visibly cringed.

"No, of course not. I didn't mean…" He ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. "You're a lady, milady. And if you say that's what we did, well, I guess…that's what we did."

"What are you going to do about it then?" She asked, when the expected next question did not spring forth from his lips.

"Marry you?"

"Yes," she said. "On Sunday next."

Teresa was instantly relieved, but then the full ramifications of their impending nuptials began to sink in. She would be married to this man for the rest of her days, a man she loved only as a friend and brother. Gone would be her fairy tale wishes of meeting a handsome prince and riding off to his kingdom with him to live happily ever after. She looked as if she might be sick again, but she brushed away his helping hand impatiently.

Rigsby's future was flashing before him as well. His idea of marriage had meant one like his parents _hadn't_ had—where they loved each other with their whole hearts. There would be mutual respect between him and Teresa, which was well enough, but not exactly the romance he'd always dreamed of. So much for not repeating his parents' mistakes. He thought briefly of the young girl he'd been courting lately, Sarah Harrigan. What would she think of him? Their budding relationship would have to abruptly end, and he was suddenly, unaccountably sorry for it.

"It's the right thing," Teresa told him, her tone softening at his bereft expression. "For our baby."

She'd had a week to deal with this possibility, and she supposed she should be more patient with him. She watched sympathetically as he nodded solemnly, then gulped.

"Of course, Boss," he said bravely.

"Thank you, Rigsby." She moved toward her horse again, carefully mounting it, feeling surprisingly better since emptying her stomach. "Oh, and Rigsby?"

"Yes, Boss?"

"Under the circumstances, maybe you should start calling me Teresa." Her innate good humor had returned, and he mirrored her small smile.

"Yes, Bo—Teresa."

As he watched her ride away, he slumped heavily onto a tree stump, his eyes going to his crotch in annoyance. "Damn it all, Rigsby, when will you learn to keep it in your breeches?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next Sunday, Teresa and Rigsby were married, with Kimball, her father and brothers as witnesses. Everyone was shocked of course, by the sudden unlikely match, especially since Rigsby was several years her junior. Her sisters-in-law looked at her gently curved stomach suspiciously, but were too kind to voice their suspicions. Her father too had guessed correctly, knowing his daughter as well as he did, knowing that she would not have married the young knight unless she'd had to. And Rigsby had confided in Kimball, who had reacted with a healthy dose of incredulity.

Her father had gone to stay with one of her brothers to give her and Rigsby a brief honeymoon, but the time came to consummate the marriage, and neither of them felt ready.

"It's all right," Rigsby said, not disappointed in the least. He sat by her on her bed, her mother's quilt drawn back invitingly, fresh roses scenting the room. "There is no hurry."

She had smiled her appreciation, and from then on, they'd slept in different beds, in separate rooms. And so their life together as man and wife continued as it had begun—with mutual respect and friendship, but no romantic love.

One month later, Teresa awoke to sharp pains and a pool of blood. The surgeon was called by the anxious new husband, and after several agonizing hours, she delivered her baby, tiny and stillborn. No one—least of all Rigsby—could console her. She became quiet and despondent, her old dimpled smiles few and far between. She threw herself into her work, taking too many unnecessary risks, narrowly evading the law or a bullet on several occasions.

It was only when she was alone in her room late at night, that Teresa let herself cry. Rigsby would lay in his chamber next door to hers, listening to her with a sinking helplessness, thinking bitterly of the life he might have had. He'd seen Sarah in the street one afternoon, and a look had passed between them of such longing, that people around them had whispered speculatively. But he had made vows before God to Teresa, and his honor forbade him from acting on what his heart desired.

Two more months passed, and Teresa became resigned to forever feeling this loss, this emptiness. Her sisters-in-law, who had all three lost children of their own, reassured her that there would be more babies in her future, that it was best to try again right away to help ease the pain. She would smile in feigned gratitude, but night would come again, and so would her tears.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Prince Patrick sat on his throne in Maliborough castle, reading the large, dusty book of magic that Red John had instructed him to read. Six months into his forced training, his former skills were now honed to perfection, and he learned a new spell every day. Red John had proven a wise and knowledgeable instructor, and Patrick had reveled in his newfound power, but he walked a narrow line with the old wizard, one between awe and hatred.

He would never forgive the murder of his family, the separation from Teresa. Never. But there was no way to fight him yet; he was too powerful. But that, as he was quickly discovering, was beginning to change. It would only be a matter of time before he would find a chink in Red John's magical armor. The real trick would be to get the wizard to share some of the most devastating and powerful of the spells, those of healing, teleportation, and the ability to speak to ravens. Red John was holding back teaching these things, and Patrick knew it was because he didn't yet trust that Patrick wouldn't use these very skills against him. He allowed himself a slight smile. Yes, Red John was wise indeed to be so cautious.

"Patrick, my son," said his father, King Stiles. "Once again I find you awake in the wee hours, reading yet another ancient tome and denying yourself much-needed rest."

Patrick lowered the book and looked up at his father. Familiar mixed feelings inundated his mind as he regarded the man whose own deal with Red John had led to Angela and Charlotte's deaths. But as much as it pained him, Patrick knew he must tamp down his anger, convince his father he was ready to move on. He knew Red John was watching his every move, and he could exert such power over other's minds that even his own father might betray him if he shared his true plans.

"I might say the same for you, Father," Patrick said, allowing a hint of irony to color his tone. "I feel compelled to learn. Tell me, though, what keeps you up at night?"

"The weight of the world, of course. Or, at least Maliborough's little corner of it." He gave a long suffering sigh. "One day, when you are king, you will be awake for far different reasons. The responsibility of it all can be overwhelming. I say, enjoy your freedom from care while you can, my boy."

Patrick nodded, noting bitterly to himself that the king didn't include guilt at what he'd allowed to happen as something keeping him awake at night. His jaw clenched briefly in anger before he forcefully relaxed it into his familiar grin.

"You needn't worry about me, Father. When I'm as powerful a wizard as Red John, then I'll be able to sleep."

Stiles raised a skeptical eyebrow. He wasn't particularly happy that his former advisor was occupying his castle again, but he comforted himself that it was better than the rumors he'd been helping his enemy, Lord Craig, mount his armies to attack him. And so far, Grace had not been called to fulfill the contract the king had signed with Craig's father so long ago. He still felt the trepidation of having to turn over his child like a prized horse one day, but it was yet another sacrifice he was willing to make for the good of the kingdom.

In the meantime, having the wizard here, training his son to become the most powerful king Maliborough had ever known, was worth sacrificing his personal feelings of hatred toward Red John. Patrick was his greatest possession, his hope for the future of the kingdom. He'd proven this with every deal he'd made since his son had been born. But there was yet one more thing he must put into place before he died—Patrick must have a son of his own to continue the royal line.

"My son," he began hesitantly. "I'm glad you are taking such an interest in your training. A king who is also a wizard would be undefeatable, could provide for his people in ways never before seen. But even wizards are not immortal. Don't you think it is time that you found another wife, insured that Maliborough would always be in safe hands?"

Patrick's eyes briefly grew cold at his father's audacity. He, who had taken away his only child had the gall to request that he find a new wife, make another child, like their lives had meant nothing, like they were so easily replaceable.

"Do you have someone in mind?" he asked tightly, though his smile remained. He knew full well that his father always had plans of his own.

"Yes. Our greatest ally to the east, the King of Vegas, has a daughter, you know."

Patrick made his face go blank. "Yes," he said dispassionately, while his blood still boiled just beneath the surface.

"Princess Loralei is a beauty, and would make you a fine wife. I had long ago hoped that you would have taken an interest in her. Your first marriage was for love; it's time you married again, this time for practical reasons. We have both seen how love makes men do irrational things."

"It does indeed," Patrick said. Teresa's face flashed in his mind, but he resolutely pushed it aside. His father was right about one thing—he must do whatever was practical. He found himself saying: "She is a lovely woman. I'd be happy to meet with her."

His father clapped his hands together happily. "Excellent! I'll arrange it as soon as possible. You are doing the right thing, my son. The good of Maliborough must take precedence over our own personal feelings. I already see glimpses of what a great king you will be one day."

"Thank you, Father."

He nodded respectfully, and watched the old man scurry away toward his bed chambers, where Patrick had no doubt he would sleep like a baby.

Truth be told, he felt exhausted, but more so by maintaining this façade rather than the sleepless nights. Alone again, he allowed himself to think of Teresa. He hoped she was well and happy, that he had done the right thing for her. He certainly knew it wasn't the right thing for _him_, for he ached with the pain of their separation, felt her loss as deeply as he had Angela's even after only knowing Teresa a few days. If he believed in such things, he might have said their souls had touched, and he felt bound to her by bonds even more sacred than his marriage vows. What he wouldn't give if he too could only forget…

He sighed and opened the book again, his eyes skimming over the ancient words barely recognizable to his modern eye. Then, flipping through the pages, his gaze was caught by a brief passage concerning the duration of spells. He translated it into his modern tongue as best he could, mouthing the words but making no sound.

_Neither man nor wizard can break a spell once it is cast, save the wizard who first cast it._

Well, that was a basic tenant of wizardry that he had always known. He read on.

_Upon a wizard's death, all his spells, save those involving mortal death, shall be reversed, and all will be as it was before…_

Patrick's lips trembled over the words, and he looked up worriedly, lest he be somehow discovered reading Red John's death sentence. For that is what it truly was. His plan all along had been to become powerful enough to defeat Red John in battle, to kill him and rid the world of his evil. Then he would seek out Teresa, try to win her back if she were still free, and get her to fall in love with him again. But if she had found someone new, well, all would truly be lost, but at least he would have protected her. This, however, _this_ changed everything. He read the passage over and over, committing it to the palace of his memory should he never again have access to this book.

If he had understood it correctly, the moment Red John died, Teresa would remember him, would remember their one night in each other's arms, remember the passion, the love, the trust between them. His heart pounded in his breast, and it took all of his control not to summon Red John and put an end to him that very moment. But that same anxious heart knew he was not yet ready, that his ruse must continue indefinitely.

Then another thought occurred to him, and his blood ran cold. Red John must have known this passage was in this book, would have realized he might come upon it and ponder its meaning. He was being tested, Patrick thought. Just as surely as the sun would rise that morning, the wicked wizard was toying with him again. The prince would just have to be more clever, more obedient, more…malleable.

But with this new knowledge came renewed hope.

_I saved you before, Teresa, _he thought. _Now, I will find a way to save __**us**__._

A/N: Still there? Anybody? Should I duck for flying tomatoes? I do realize there are some obvious gaps here that I must fill in, namely Kimball and Summer's fate and his (and others') memory loss. All will be revealed in the next chapter, I promise. Thanks for waiting for me; I hope it was worth it. I'll have another chapter up much sooner than this one.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Well, I couldn't avoid a few flying tomatoes, but it's hard to please everyone, isn't it? Those of you still here, you will see a definite shift in this chapter, and the end will start to be in sight. As Shakespeare once said, "the course of true love never did run smooth…"

**Chapter 14**

Prince Patrick stood in the dark, snowy woods, pulling his black, fur-lined cloak more tightly about him. He'd received a mysterious missive, slipped beneath his door, asking for a meeting with someone _who can help you obtain your heart's desire. _Naturally he was suspicious, concerned this might be another test of loyalty by Red John. So he was hesitant at first, but the frustrated desire to find a way back to Teresa compelled him to complete the assignation despite the risks. Should it be a test, he had a ready excuse. He would simply call it curiosity. Who, after all, would have the bollocks to approach a prince with such an offer?

He'd been waiting half an hour with no sign of his visitor, and was just about to leave when a voice drifted to him, soft yet distinct in the crisp air.

"I am glad to see you agreed to meet me," said a diminutive man, wearing a cloak as black as night. Beneath the canopy of the pines, his hood hid his features, but the prince heard his advanced age in his voice.

"Yes," replied Patrick. "Who are you? And what do you want?"

There came a quiet laugh. "My ravens told me you were much more patient than that, my boy."

_Ravens?_ Patrick thought. _So, he too was a wizard_.

"They should also have told you I'm not one for games that waste my time."

"Really? What have you been doing then these past six months?"

Patrick tensed with fear. "Come into the light, old man." Another soft chuckle, and the man stepped into the brightness of the moon that reflected off the new-fallen snow. The stranger reached with both hands and pulled down his hood, revealing a face that resembled a wise old bird.

"I am Panzer."

Patrick was startled. He'd heard that name before. "A Dark Wizard," he said.

"Oh, not so dark as some of those who pretend otherwise," said the wizard cryptically.

"What do you want from me?" Patrick repeated, but his voice was not as arrogant as before.

"I've been watching you, Your Highness. Despite what you say, you are playing a dangerous game with the red one. But I can help you."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because I am powerless against him and those under his protection, but you, dear Prince, are not. I want him gone from this earth and to the depths of Hell where he belongs. And don't ask why; my reasons are my own."

"I have made one deal with the devil; it seems counterproductive to make a deal with another. The devil you know and all. But if the stories of you are to be believed, you have killed and maimed and wreaked havoc for years. I could no more trust you to tell me the truth than I can Red John. If you want me to destroy him, you'll have to give me something in return."

"Oh, I will. Of course. That is why I'm here, after all. It seems to me that if you could speak to the ravens, you would be well on your way to finding Red John's weaknesses. I shall give you the gift of understanding. Come closer, young man."

Patrick made no move. He feared a trick of some kind. "No."

"Do not fear me, for I have no reason to harm you."

"Perhaps. If the stories of you are true, you only harm young girls."

Panzer was not phased. He brushed aside the accusation with a waft of a gnarled hand. "Rumors. This may be your only chance, Your Highness. Red John will never share with you the most valuable power he has. Possessing the ability to talk to the birds will give you near omniscience. You will be able to spy on your enemies and watch over your loved ones, just as he can. You will be one step closer to becoming his equal. That is what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I sense you fear this is a trick. You think that Red John may be watching to see what you will do with this temptation of knowledge. I have cloaked us now with silence. Look around you and you will see I speak the truth."

Patrick looked above him, saw that the stars seemed to be blurry in the once clear sky. He recognized that they were now within a bubble, one impenetrable by either the eyes or ears of other wizards. He'd read of this, but it was yet another spell Red John was reluctant to teach him. His eyes settled again on Panzer's, dark and unfathomable. The prince was at the end of his patience. Knowledge was power, and Red John still did not trust him enough to bestow these gifts upon him.

"Very well," he said, and stepped closer to the Dark Wizard. The old man reached out his hand and touched the prince on the forehead with one finger. Despite the bitter cold of the night, Panzer's hand was burning hot, and Patrick nearly stepped away again, fearful his touch would leave a mark.

Panzer silently muttered a few words, and Patrick saw in his mind a flash of pure, white light. He closed his eyes but could not escape the glare of it. When Panzer removed his hand, it was as if Patrick had emerged from under water. The light faded away and he could suddenly hear more clearly. His eyes flew immediately to a nearby tree, where he could hear the thoughts of an unknown observer.

_Follow the prince. Report to The Master. Follow the prince._

Patrick's eyes widened in fear.

"Is that…?"

"Yes, that is Dumar, Red John's most prized raven. He followed you from the castle, but he can neither see nor hear us at the moment. I told you we were protected."

"But won't he tell Red John of this meeting? Won't he know that I can understand him now?"

"He will be unable to report anything but that you took a midnight walk in the woods. As for knowing if you can understand ravens—just never look a bird in the eyes, or it will be able to see you can converse with it."

Patrick nodded. "How do I hire a raven of my own?"

"I will send you one two nights hence. She is my own raven, immune to the influences of Red John or to his own ravens. Her name is Darcy. Treat her with kindness and with the finest meats, and she will be your loyal servant."

"I have learned nothing comes without a price. What do you want in return?"

"I told you: Red John's death. When he is gone, the spell he cast over me will be lifted, and I will be free. You may not see it, but Red John is merely a common wizard. He is also lazy, sloppy, and delusional. In many ways, despite his years, an amateur."

"He was able to stay _your_ powers," Patrick pointed out.

"It was in a moment of weakness. It was through pure luck alone. You, Your Highness, you will become one of the greatest wizards who has ever lived. I have foreseen this, and I'm certain Red John fears it, or he would have given you the knowledge to come by all the power you deserve. He only wants to use you for his purposes, groom you into joining his mindless followers. So far, you have resisted, and fooled him into believing you want what he wants. That alone shows just how powerful you already are, Prince. Now, go forth and use the tools I have given you, and I hope you remember my kindness someday when you achieve all that you deserve."

Patrick nodded, then watched as Panzer stepped back into the darkness of the trees. He looked up to see the stars still blurred by the wizard's spell, but then the old man's voice came to him again on the night air.

"Oh, one thing more. You should know of Red John's greatest weakness. Her name is Princess Loralei, your soon-to-be betrothed."

"How did you-?"

"I have ravens too, remember?"

"How is she his weakness?"

"She is Red John's daughter," came the faint reply of the Dark Wizard. Suddenly, the stars became clear in the sky again and Panzer had disappeared into the night once more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lady Teresa had no maid, so laundry day fell solely on her. She'd spent the morning boiling and scrubbing clothing and linens, and she was the one to hang all of it outside to dry in the cold winter wind. She sighed, feeling the emptiness that was her life. She picked up another article of still steaming clothing-a shirt of her father's. As she lifted the heated item she caught sight of a black winged bird as it alighted in the bare limbed tree holding one end of the clothesline. It looked curiously at what she was doing, then squawked, ruffling its feathers in the wind.

"Well, hello there," she said to the raven. "Come to supervise my work?" The raven squawked again, as if in reply.

"If I were you, I'd find my nest soon, or you'll be caught in the coming storm," she told the bird, then shook her head ruefully. "Now I'm talking to animals. Teresa, you are clearly going mad."

She pinned Rigsby's drawers to the line, hoping snow would not come before they dried. If she hadn't been doing her own father's and brothers' laundry for years, she might have been embarrassed to see the undergarment of her husband in name only.

She heard the cottage door open, and out stepped the man himself. When he noticed whose drawers she was attending to, he flushed, and for the first time in months, she felt a small smile curving her lips.

"I'm going to my old farm to help with a few chores," he told her. "Anything you need done before I leave?"

She paused in her work to look at him. He was such a good man. So loyal to try to make their marriage work.

"I want an annulment," she announced, looking him directly in the eye.

"We can't," he replied, shocked she would even suggest it.

She set down the wet laundry and went over to him, taking his warm, dry hands into her wet ones.

"Rigsby, we haven't consummated our marriage yet."

He gulped. "Is—is that what you want?"

It was her turn to blush. "No! I mean to say we are not living as husband and wife, so perhaps the Church would set us free. It was a mistake—"

"We made vows, Bo—uh, Teresa. And we made a child long before we said them."

He saw the brief flash of pain at the mention of the little life they had lost. It had been a boy. They'd named him Owain, and he and Kimball had buried his son in an unmarked grave in the woods. Rigsby swallowed his own pain and continued with what he knew was right. "The Church will not see fit to end such a marriage after that fact."

"No one needs to know. Only my father and Kimball knew for sure about…about the baby. They would not betray us."

"But…God still knows," he said softly, dropping her hands and turning his face into the chill wind.

Teresa, however, despite her belief in the Church's laws, saw this as a special circumstance, and she must convince him she wasn't being selfish. This would be for him more than anyone.

"But neither of us is happy," she told him. "Surely God does not want that. And I know you have feelings for Sarah—"

Rigsby blanched, then turned reluctantly to face her. "I'm sorry it has been that obvious. I'll try harder to hide my feelings."

"That's my point," she told him. "You shouldn't _have_ to try so hard to be faithful to me, don't you see? It isn't right. There is no longer a baby. Isn't that punishment enough without having to live in a loveless marriage?"

He looked momentarily hurt, and she rushed to heal the damage. "I'm not saying you're not a wonderful husband, Rigsby. You are. You've stood by me, married me, even though we were both unsure the baby was even yours. And when I lost it two months ago, you were so caring. And now you've taken over my old chores in the stables, done some repairs to the cottage that I could not. You are so kind to my father, and to me. I don't deserve you. Some lucky girl like Sarah does."

RIgsby's hurt was suddenly replaced by an unfamiliar anger.

"Now, look here…_Wife_," he began hesitantly. "I-I'm the husband here and…and I'll hear no more on this subject. We are married, and we have to accept this as fact. _I _am the boss now," he concluded, pointing to his own chest and rising proudly to his full, towering height.

"Now, I'm going home to Mother." He paused, realizing the irony of his last sentence. "She needs more firewood before the storm," he rushed to explain needlessly, blushing again while Teresa stood watching him benignly.

She was right—she surely did not deserve to have such a fine man.

"You've been talking to Kimball again, haven't you?" she asked in faint amusement. He didn't deny it.

"Well, he's right, you know. It's high time I took my rightful place as head of this family. And maybe to convince you, we should…we should begin sharing the marriage bed. It is my right as a husband after all."

She went pale beneath her wind-reddened cheeks.

"Rigsby…" she managed over a constricted throat. She was relieved when he immediately backed down.

"I mean, whenever you're ready," he amended lamely. "But I'll listen to no more talk of annulment. What's done is done."

With that, he turned toward the stables to saddle his ride to his mother's house.

Teresa sighed. She was not one to give up on something she believed in so strongly. She would save him from this sham of a marriage, despite his new-found desire to take the reins of it. She knew in her heart that he would never force himself upon her, so she still had time to keep their marriage celibate. It was their only way out. Perhaps she could say a few words to Sarah to help move along her cause...

She noticed the raven was still on its perch in the tree, and she had the strangest feeling that it had been watching them, eavesdropping on their conversation.

It was very disconcerting. In a fit of temper, she grabbed a pair of wet breeches and flicked them toward the bird, water flying onto its black feathers.

"Shoo!" she cried. The raven, appearing gravely affronted, shrieked in protest and flapped its wings before alighting again into the wind. She felt instantly guilty for taking out her frustration on a poor animal, but, then again, ravens weren't exactly good omens. And she'd had more than her share of bad luck lately.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"It's me, Patrick," said Grace from outside her brother's chamber door. "May I come in?"

She heard the latch drawn back, and her concerned gaze rested on Patrick's haggard face. She was the only one he didn't need to pretend with, and she could see all the pain and frustration that was usually hidden by charming smiles and forced enthusiasm. He gave her a half-hearted smile and stepped aside so that she might enter. They spoke in whispers.

"You can't go on like this, Patrick. You are ruining your health."

He raised an ironic eyebrow as he noted the dark circles beneath her own eyes.

"You're one to talk. Why aren't you in bed?"

She shrugged. "I can't sleep either. But that's not the point. You're pushing yourself to learn this magic, when all you need do is go back to Lady Teresa and-"

"I can't," he hissed. "Stop telling me I can. I made an agreement and I can't see her again. Besides, she wouldn't know me from Adam anyway."

She climbed up on his high bed, noting the covers hadn't been pulled back. He wasn't even attempting to sleep anymore. He'd been sitting in his chair by the fire, stacks of old books surrounding it. Trays of half-eaten meals littered any available table space, and even the floor. She could also smell strong ale and wine. She wrinkled her nose.

"Tomorrow, you will let the maids come in here, or I'll clean up this mess myself."

"Grace," he fairly growled, tired of this old argument. He sighed in resignation.

"Fine. But they're to be quick about it." His voice softened. "And you, dear Sister, need to try to find something to occupy your mind besides my life, such as it is these days."

He saw her eyes water a little, and she blinked rapidly. "It's either that or think of Rigsby. I can't get him out of my head, Patrick. How he would look at me, like I was something rare and precious to him. No man has ever looked at me that way. There was something between us, and it isn't fair that I couldn't see where it might lead."

He walked over to her, kissing her furrowed brow. "Shh. _I _have always seen you as rare and precious."

She met his eyes with an annoyed stare only a sister could master. "You know what I mean. Six months ago, when I found myself suddenly in this castle again, it felt like my life had been torn away. I wondered if I had dreamed everything—Lord Craig, Sacraham…Rigbsy. Then when you came home a few days later and explained what had happened…I'm sorry I was so angry. I see now you felt you had no choice."

"I didn't. I couldn't have borne watching her die, watching you forced to marry Lord Craig, watching poor Sir Minelli waste the rest of his days in Hartshorne Tower. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat."

"I know," she said. "I only wish we could both move on, that we too had been allowed to forget…"

A tapping came at the window, barely discernible over the howling wind outside. Patrick rushed to unlatch it, knowing full well who it was—or rather _what_ it was entreating entrance. Grace's eyes widened in fear as a black bird flew inside with a soft squawk of greeting. Patrick had to push hard against the wind to shut the window again, and when he turned back, his sister had hidden amidst the curtains of his bed, and the raven was perched on the back of his chair near the fire.

"What is that doing in here?" she said.

"This is my new friend, Darcy," said Patrick, smiling at his sister, then inviting the bird to alight on his arm. "She's been on an errand for me in Sacraham."

"What? But I thought that only wizards could—" She paused, then laughed lightly at herself when she saw his raised eyebrow. "I guess you truly are a wizard now." She jumped down from the bed in excitement. "Does she have news?"

Patrick looked deeply into the bird's dark eyes, and, as when the creature had arrived at his window two days before, it was as if a portal had opened in his mind, allowing the raven's thoughts—though simple and direct—to flow freely into his mind.

Grace marveled at the sight of her brother communing with the raven, and she stood anxiously waiting, one fingernail between her teeth. All at once, Patrick gasped, and stumbled backward, nearly missing his chair, then fell heavily into it. His hand went to his heart, and Grace rushed to his side as the bird broke their connection and flew to the mantle to await instructions.

Grace knelt at her brother's side, frightened by his stricken expression. He was breathing heavily, his face a ghostly white.

"What is it? What's happened?"

His eyes had squeezed tightly shut as he panted, his hands going to the arms of the chair as he fought for control.

"Patrick? You must tell me!"

Finally, he opened his eyes to look at her, tears beginning to slide down his face.

"Teresa," he managed. "She—she—was with child. I think it was mine."

"Patrick!" she exclaimed. It was certainly news to her that he'd lain with the woman. "Wait—_was_? What happened?" But by the look on his face, she knew what the likely story was.

"She lost it, Grace. She lost my baby. She had no idea how she'd gotten pregnant, so she married…Rigsby." It was Grace's turn to blanch, and her brother reached out to steady her.

"They're…married?"

Patrick looked at his sister, seeing his own anguish reflected in her eyes. "Yes," he said simply.

"But he doesn't love her, or, I suspect, she him."

"Darcy says she wants out of the marriage, wants an annulment, though I don't see how that's possible now. Unless…unless the _real_ father of her child should make an appearance."

He rose so that Grace might sit, and he began pacing back and forth in agitation.

"I can't wait any longer," he muttered. "It has to be done now. I should have been with her. She should be _my_ wife now."

Grace pulled herself out of her own daze to look at the prince. Her tears were flowing unabated down her smooth cheeks. "What, Patrick? What in God's name can we possibly do now?"

He stopped mid-stride and went over to her, dropping to his knees before her and taking her cold hands between his. "Whether she is with me or not, she doesn't deserve to be married to someone she doesn't love. All of this is Red John's fault. I have to kill that spawn from Hell, Grace. For her. For Rigsby. For _us, _Grace. If it is the last thing I do."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Rigsby finished his tasks at his mother's cottage, but he was in no mood to return to Teresa's after their argument, despite the approaching storm. He rode into town and tied his horse to the post outside The Rose and Thorn tavern, which was occupied by one other familiar animal. Inside, he had expected the place to be packed with men trying to escape the cold, but for once they seemed to be heeding the threat of the advancing storm and staying home lest they be stranded there.

The wind was now blowing considerably and Rigsby had to fight the door to get it to close behind him. He stood then in the dimly lit tavern, surveying the few patrons nursing their pints of ale, Kimball among them. He joined his friend at his table in a corner, his back to the wall as any wise warrior would do.

"Wind's picked up," Kimball said by way of greeting, but his eyes remained on the lone barmaid, a white-haired beauty carrying a tray which she was loading with empty tankards. She would stop and share a joke with the other men, then gather up their coins for refills.

"Summer seems to be fitting in very well here," Rigsby commented, admiring the woman's obvious assets, revealed by her low-cut dress.

Kimball shrugged and sourly drank his ale. It was then that Rigsby realized he'd been drinking, and quite a lot.

Everyone had been surprised when Kimball had returned after a mysterious absence some six months before, bringing this fairy's child in tow. He too had suffered some memory loss, which had compelled Teresa's father, familiar with the workings of royal wizards, to proclaim that they had likely been put under a spell of some kind. Since Sir Minelli remembered nothing of the day or two before either, he'd concluded that they must come across knowledge that would hurt someone with much power.

The four victims of the spell could do nothing but believe it to be true, and since there was nothing to dispute the old man's conjecture, they all chose to move on. Unfortunately for all of them, those missing days had come to affect them all in life-altering ways.

"What's with you?" Rigsby asked, grateful to have someone else's problems to think of for a while. "Summer withholding her…_affections_?" He smirked a little at his euphemism.

"Yes," Kimball replied, and Rigsby shot his friend a look of surprise. Kimball had told him all about awakening in an abbey, injured and drugged. He'd regaled him with the story of their escape, their adventures on an old mare, and the prince who had supplied them with his white stallion. Rigsby was not surprised that Kimball seemed to have become totally enamored with the former prostitute, to the extent that he'd set her up with this job, found her a place to sleep in a tiny room in back of the tavern. Only Rigbsy was entrusted with the knowledge of Summer's past, allowing the girl to start all over with a new life.

She had thrived here, and Rigsby wondered why Summer had suddenly decided the romance was over.

"Well, why?" Rigsby asked the obvious question.

Kimball sighed into his ale. "She said something about free milk and buying cows and kicked me out of her bed this morning."

Rigsby tried not to laugh at that image. "Isn't it funny," Rigsby began, "that a man I know, who looks an awful lot like you, by the way, recently told me that I should remember my place as the man in my relationship."

"Hilarious," Kimball slurred dryly, shooting his friend a look of extreme annoyance.

"So, she wants you to marry her. Why the hell don't you?"

"She's not the kind of woman you marry."

"Well, God's teeth, Kimball, no wonder she threw you over. I'd do the same, if I were her. Not that I would ever be in such a situation. Or even think of putting myself in her place. With you. In bed." But amusement colored his halting explanation.

"Shut up," said Kimball.

By this time, Summer had made her way over to Rigsby to take his order.

"Hello, Sir Rigsby," she said brightly, pointedly ignoring Kimball. "Braved the cold for a pint, did ya?"

"I'd risk a tempest and more, to behold your pretty face," he said with his most charming grin. Summer laughed at his disingenuous flirting.

"I'll be sure to let your wife know you feel that way. Might I get you some ale?"

"That would be lovely indeed," responded Rigsby somewhat less buoyantly, taken aback a little at the reminder of his own problems.

"Coming right up."

Kimball held out his tankard, but Summer overlooked it and flounced off to fetch Rigsby's drink.

"Your comfort's been cut off here too, it seems," remarked Rigsby. "Probably a good thing, I'd say," he concluded, noting his friend's glassy eyes and ill humor.

Kimball turned to look at his friend, realizing through his drunken haze that something must be troubling him. He didn't often see Rigsby in the tavern so late these days.

"And why is it you aren't home in your own warm bed?"

"Teresa wants an annulment, but I don't see a chance in Hell of getting one."

"I think you should try," said Kimball. He was still blatantly uncomfortable that their boss would suddenly be married to his best friend, that they'd shared a bed long enough to create a child together. It all seemed so wrong somehow, like the universe had gone suddenly mad. He glanced again at Summer, and realized how very true that was.

"What happened to exerting my manly rights?" Rigsby asked, taken aback at his sudden shift in opinion.

"I'm learning that women are really the ones in control in this world, and it's best we just stand aside and let them have their way. 'Sides, marriage is sort of a sticky subject with me at the moment."

"You know, our problems all go back to those missing days," Rigsby mused. "If we _are_ under a spell, it was a particularly cruel one. What might we all have done to deserve it?"

"God only knows, my friend." Kimball downed the bitter dregs of his ale just in time for Summer's reappearance at their table, Rigsby's tankard in hand.

"I'd like a refill, wench," demanded Kimball, slamming his empty cup on the table. The sparse crowd grew silent at the unexpected outburst.

Summer's smile froze on her face. "You, sir, may gladly go to Hell," she proclaimed, and promptly threw the contents of Rigsby's tankard into Kimball's face.

He sat there a moment, shaking in shock, then silent rage, the alcohol stinging his eyes as the smattering of laughter engulfed him. Rigsby reached out a hand to hold him in his seat, preventing him from angrily going after her.

"Let's get out of here before you do something else you'll regret in the morning."

He allowed Rigsby to bundle him out of the tavern, and the cold wind and now blowing snow were very sobering.

"Can you mount your horse?" Rigsby yelled over the blizzard. "I'll see you home."

"I'm awake now," Kimball called back, climbing into the saddle with surprisingly sure movements. But, always a good friend, Rigsby followed him back to his small cottage, waiting until he went inside before putting the horse into the barn for him, even tossing in some fresh hay.

"Good, boy, Luther," Rigsby murmured to the horse as he unbuckled the stallion's saddle. "Kimball's lucky to have you."

It was an odd story to top off the very odd happenings six months before. Some days after Kimball's return to Sacraham, Kimball's horse, Luther, had found his way home. Kimball was overjoyed (in his own quiet way) at the return of his other most loyal friend, and was pleased that while he was covered with scrapes and scratches, and had a terrible gash on his right flank, he had miraculously survived his fall into the river.

Rigsby carried the saddle to its stand and as he set it down, his hand encountered the hidden pocket Kimball sometimes used to store things to protect them (ironically) from thieves. He felt the outline of something small and distinctly ring-like. Curiously, he slipped his fingers inside and pulled out a shining golden ring, encrusted with rubies and bearing the signet of the Royal House of Maliborough. Rigsby's eyes flew immediately to the other horse occupying Kimball's stable—a white stallion given to him by none other than the Prince of Maliborough himself.

Rigsby's mind was plagued with questions, least of which was why Kimball was holding such a valuable piece of jewelry whose sale would have meant months of supplies for Sacraham's people. That wasn't like Kimball at all. Had this been yet another gift from the prince? And if so, why had Kimball held onto it all these months?

Rigsby slipped his fingers further into the concealed pouch and felt a slip of paper and a bit of linen cloth. He pulled them out, opening the cloth first, and found, folded within it, two locks of hair—one golden blonde, one bright red. On impulse, he sniffed the red and found it smelled of flowers.

"What the bloody hell…?"

He turned his attention to the paper, and was shocked to see it was a letter, neatly halved and sealed in wax with the same crest that was on the ring. Heart pounding, he began to read:

_Dear Father,_

_Grace and I are being held by a band of outlaws, who, on threat of our lives, demand you pay a ransom for our safe release. I beg you to give the man bearing this letter whatever he asks for in due haste. Until then, we are at their mercy._

_Your son,_

_Prince Patrick of Maliborough_

Rigsby re-read the letter twice more, shock and confusion warring within him. Either Kimball was lying—which he doubted from the bottom of his soul—or this was likely the key to the mystery of their lost days.

On impulse, Rigsby put the items into his pocket, planning to confront Kimball with them the next day when he'd had time to sober up and give some sort of logical explanation. All roads, it seemed, were beginning to lead to Maliborough. Kimball's mysterious journey there. The prince's help on the road. The ransom note. The ring. The possibility that a royal wizard had cast a spell on them. Perhaps he and Kimball should ride down that road once more. Their very futures might depend upon it.

A/N: Hmmm…apparently Patrick's plan to remove any remembrance of his presence in their lives overlooked one minor detail…

I hope you are seeing a light at the end of this brief tunnel for our heroes. And please don't believe for a moment that I am painting Panzer as a good guy. As with the show, he will find his just reward.

Thanks, my loyal readers, for hanging in there with me. Your faith in my writing means more than you know.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: And now, a bonus weekend chapter, because I'm feeling everything coming together now and I'm excited to take you all to the promised conclusion. If you haven't yet read chap 14, (published Friday) you might want to take a moment and catch up. Thanks so much for reading!

**Chapter 15**

"We can't just show up at the Maliborough Castle gatehouse and expect to receive an audience with the Prince," said Kimball softly, given his intense headache. Too much ale will do that to you. He had hoped he could have drunk so much that he had another memory lapse, but he still recalled in vivid clarity the feeling of warm ale dripping into his eyes and down under the collar of his shirt.

"But you said you believe he recognized you when he gave you that horse," Rigsby was saying. "And he even knew your name. If we had done something ill to him, like held him for ransom, he would have had his knight arrest you rather than give you his boots."

"For the love of God, man, could you lower your voice?" Kimball moaned and sipped the god-awful tea his friend had made him.

"Sorry. But you see what I mean," Rigsby continued in a near-whisper. "Don't you want to know why we lost our memories? Look how our lives changed because of those missing days. My life is Hell right now, and yours is fairly close to that, I imagine, though most of yours is your own damn fault…"

"Thanks," Kimball muttered.

"We owe it to ourselves to go and find out what we can."

Kimball set down his mug and looked blearily at his friend. The morning light spilling in through the windows of his small cottage hurt his eyes as much as it did his head. He sighed heavily. "I agree. Can we at least wait until the weather improves?" _And my hangover goes away?_

"Yes. Of course. The blizzard made the roads impassable anyway."

"The boss will want to go," Kimball commented.

"No."

"Why not? She has as much right to know as we do."

"She's my wife, Kimball, and has been through enough these past months without possibly walking into a viper's nest at Maliborough. If we were put under a spell, there was a reason for it. Someone obviously doesn't want us to know what happened. It could put us all in danger again."

"It's good you're finally being a husband to her, but this is the woman we've seen jump from her horse to a speeding carriage, throwing the driver off and taking the reins mid-gallop. This is the woman who only recently held her knife to Sheriff LaRoche's throat—albeit while in disguise—but you know she can take care of herself."

The LaRoche incident had been two weeks before, when she and her band had broken a local farmer out of the stocks and hidden him with relatives in the next village. Kimball didn't want to point out how much more reckless Teresa had become since the miscarriage, but he knew this was her way of dealing with the pain, or perhaps, avoiding it. Kimball had the queasy stomach to prove he understood full well what she was doing.

"She has a right to know," Kimball repeated with finality.

Rigsby stared at his friend, worn down already by his arguments. They might need her, he realized. It was Rigsby's turn to sigh. "All right. But you know she'll just take over all the planning like she always does."

Kimball grinned, then flinched as it pulled the muscles in his pounding head. "That's what she's best at, isn't it?

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa held the golden lock of hair between her thumb and forefinger, marveling at its softness. _Almost like a baby's, _she thought, but then she dropped the curl onto the table like it was a snake. Anything that reminded her of babies these days twisted her up inside. She looked at her husband and Kimball.

After reading the ransom note several times, she knew instinctively that this was the key to finding out what had happened to their memories, and Teresa found herself aching to know the entire story surrounding her child. It drove her mad that she couldn't remember the night he'd been conceived, and while it wouldn't bring him back, at least she would know when his life began.

"We'll go tomorrow," she said. "It was much warmer today; the snow is already practically gone. But Kimball's right. We can't expect the prince to simply grant us an audience, especially looking as we normally do. We'll have to go into our old trunks and to the backs of our wardrobes and find our old court clothes. They may be a little out of date, but at least we might be taken more seriously than showing up in peasant gear." _Or the dark clothing of highwaymen, _she finished to herself.

The two men nodded, resigned before they'd even shared the news that she would insist on going.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" asked Rigsby softly.

"Of course," she said casually, deliberately playing obtuse in the face of his concern. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Rigsby shook his head slightly, but knew she was still hurting as much as he was by their loss. Maybe filling in the missing pieces of their past would heal them both. But as she turned away with the excuse of cutting a few more slices of cake for their guest, he caught the look on her face. It was a look he recognized well, for he saw it in his own face each morning when he looked into the mirror.

From his hidden vantage point at the top of the stairs, Sir Minelli shook his head. These children were taking an inordinate risk. He'd learned long ago that the whims of kings and wizards were to be borne as stoically as death and taxes, and woe to the man who interfered with the way of their world.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"We're a little underdressed," remarked Kimball dryly as they watched carriage after expensive carriage wend its way up the curving road to Maliborough Castle. They'd arrived just in time for quite a party, apparently.

They had reached the village of Maliborough two hours before, and had managed to secure the last available room in town where they could freshen up from their long journey and dress in their old finery before approaching the castle. The closer they had ridden to the village, the more traffic they had met on the road.

"Big doin's up at the palace," the innkeeper had told them. "You're lucky I have an attic room available, but all three of ya will have to share the one bed." He gave a slight leer, but when Rigsby reached out and grabbed the man by the collar, his expression veered abruptly toward fear.

"That's my wife you're debasing with your eyes, old man."

He swallowed and squeaked: "Sorry. Weren't my intention at all."

Rigsby had released him roughly and picked up the key to their new abode. "Send up some fresh hot water and some food—the best you've got."

"Right away, Sir Rigsby," answered the innkeeper. Rigsby had looked at his two companions and grinned, to which they merely shook their heads at his theatrics, but they couldn't deny the results. Sometimes a little intimidation went a long way.

Now, as they hid on their horses in the dark woods along the castle road, they realized they were about to interlope upon a royal ball. Maliborough Castle was lit up at the top of the hill like a beacon, the sound of stringed instruments waltzing through the air invitingly.

Teresa looked down at her gown. It was fine enough for everyday court appearances, but she would stick out like a sore toe in a ballroom.

"Well, then, let's get some more fitting attire," she replied to Kimball's observation.

"Where?" asked Rigsby hopelessly.

Teresa waved her hand toward the arriving carriages. "Why, we have no doubt the finest selection of ball apparel in all of Maliborough parading right before us."

Kimball smirked. He was becoming quite used to purloining used clothing.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Newly outfitted in a slightly loose ball gown of peacock blue, Lady Teresa and her satin breeches-clad escorts snuck in behind a group of courtiers and awaited their announcement in the foyer. Somewhere in the woods beside the castle road, three legitimate guests sat, bound and gagged in only their undergarments, safe within the relative warmth of their fine carriage.

When it came time to tell the crier their names, the trio of thieves looked at one another. Teresa saw no reason to lie. They might not have been invited guests, but this was one sure way to draw the prince's attention and get a quick audience.

Before Kimball could give false names, however, Teresa spoke them true.

"Lady Teresa, Sir Rigsby and Sir Kimball, of the Kingdom of Hartshorne."

Her heart pounded as the man sniffed a little at their place of origin, then obediently called out their names. There was a brief hush from the crowd at mention of the nearby kingdom, and necks craned and eyes flew to the doorway to see the foreign arrivals.

They entered the ballroom, their eyes taking in the myriad of curious stares, along with the black and white marble floor, and the multitude of flickering candles, everything reflected in the mirrors that lined one wall. The windows on the wall opposite were open to let in the early winter breeze, necessary to cool the dancers in the close crush. The marble pillars were encircled by fragrant hothouse flowers, their scent lending an additional touch of romance to the evening.

Despite her nervousness, Teresa plastered on a dimpled smile, and Rigsby and Kimball did a less enthusiastic version of the same.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_**An hour earlier…**_

"Must we do this, Father?" asked Princess Grace as she emerged from her chambers to find King Stiles awaiting his children. They would make their grand entrance in mere minutes.

"What better way than a ball, my dear, to meet your intended husband, and for your brother to meet the future Queen of Maliborough."

It had been a stroke of genius on his part—or so the king had believed—to invite both Lord Craig of Hartshorne and Princess Loralei of Vegas to meet his children and tie up their engagements in one fell swoop. It would bring about an easing of tensions with Hartshorne, and add to the coffers of Maliborough with the dowryfrom Princess Loralei. He had no doubt that once the couples looked upon one another, they would fall instantly in love and vow to marry on the spot. Grandchildren would not be far behind.

He took his daughter's hand, smiling at her beauty. She looked just like her mother—striking red hair and a delicate complexion. His son had gotten his blonde locks from him, and as the prince stepped out of his rooms down the hall, the king took great pride in the fine looking young man he'd had part in creating. He was inordinately proud of his children, would do anything for them, but he was not hesitant to do what he felt was best for them. _They are only children after all,_ he thought.

"Aww, Patrick. What a fine leg you will strike among the courtiers. The perfect model of a Royal Prince of Maliborough. All the ladies will swoon—especially one particular lady, eh, my boy?"

Patrick felt the pressure of this night as he took Grace's other arm. He owed the kingdom an heir, but he still felt in his heart a coldness toward the father who had sacrificed his family so that Patrick might live. And now, with the news of another child lost due at least in part to Red John's machinations, Patrick felt an emptiness within that threatened to overwhelm him. But he had to be strong, both for is sister's sake, as well as for the sake of his ultimate plan. His face set in a benign smile, Patrick walked toward the distant sound of music.

His sister looked up at him like a lamb being led to slaughter, or perhaps a Christian to the lions, for they both knew full well what was expected of them this night. Neither of them wanted to marry when their hearts belonged to others, even if those others had no idea they existed. Patrick took Grace's cold hand in his and squeezed it consolingly.

And so they emerged at the top of the grand staircase, listening to the trumpeters' fanfare as they were announced by the royal crier. The guests stilled and gazed upon the royal family in awe, the men's eyes following the lines of Princess Grace's full figure, the women fluttering their fans at the golden beauty of their prince. Patrick numbly stood in the receiving line, greeting the distant family members and dignitaries of the realm who had gathered for this, the first royal ball since the tragic deaths of the prince's wife and daughter.

There were rumblings of the possibility of two engagements this night, made even louder when the lovely Princess Loralei and her father, King Timothy, of the nearby, smaller kingdom of Vegas, arrived, one of Maliborough's closest allies. And then, Lord Craig, current ruler of Hartshorne, had made his entrance, and speculation turned to certainty, for it was well-known Princess Grace had been promised to Craig on the day of her birth. It would seem that Maliborough's long mourning had been lifted at last.

When the Princess Loralei stopped before him, she curtsied properly and he bowed automatically. He was truly surprised at her beauty. Dark eyed and hair like night, she had grown much since he'd last seen her, a small girl of perhaps seven. She didn't look like the daughter of the devil, but there was a definite air about her, a sort of otherworldliness that bespoke exposure to things unknown by the men and women around them.

"Charmed, Your Highness," said Patrick, bringing her warm, delicate hand up to his lips.

"As am I, Your Highness," she said, her voice that of a girl much younger than her years. He was certain most other men would find it appealing, but he looked into her eyes and could see the calculation behind the innocence. Patrick felt instantly sorry for her adopted father, who likely had no idea his wife had succumbed to the seduction of the red wizard.

"May I claim the next waltz, Princess Loralei?" he asked, in answer to his father's expectant gaze.

"I would be honored, Your Highness," she replied, and she winked at him with disturbing sensual promise. They bowed and curtsied again, and the long line moved along for the excitement of further individual royal greetings.

Grace had a difficult time pretending she did not know Lord Craig, did not know his cruelty when pursuing what he wanted. Craig had no memory of holding her and Lord Minelli captive, had forgotten that his orders had led to Lady Teresa's injury and her and Sir Rigsby's stay in Hartshorne's dungeons. But when he was presented to Grace, she felt her brother's reassuring touch at her elbow, and she smiled prettily.

"You are even more beautiful than I had heard, Your Highness," said Lord Craig, pouring on the charm. She was immune.

"Thank you," she said graciously. He too requested the next waltz, and she reluctantly agreed. She had to have faith in her brother, in his insistence that keeping up this ruse was necessary to the end game, the culmination of six months of obedience to Red John's wishes. Armed with new knowledge and power, Patrick had assured her their reward for their patience would pay off very, very soon.

Thirty more minutes of introductions, and the orchestra, on cue from King Stiles, launched into a romantic waltz, and the Prince and Princess of Maliborough dutifully took their partners.

"You dance divinely, Your Highness," said Princess Loralei, smiling into his eyes. She stood up straight, surreptitiously thrusting her rounded breasts toward his body. He had no trouble keeping his eyes on hers.

"As do you, Princess," he said politely. He decided to test the waters. "Your father seems a very interesting man. I am impressed by his…almost _magical_ qualities."

Her smile faltered slightly, and when she met his eyes again, hers narrowed nearly imperceptibly. _Awww…_thought Patrick, Panzer's claim confirmed in his mind. Her mask of sweetness fell into place again.

"Yes," she replied, "he has always been quite the charmer. Since my mother passed, the ladies at home keep him in constant demand."

"As I would imagine," he said. "The apple hasn't fallen too far from the tree."

"You flatter me," she dimpled, but her eyes were lacking the warmth he'd seen before.

"No," he objected softly. "I mean every word."

Their dance was completed in silence, and Patrick danced with a few more of his subjects before a wave of late arrivals were announced. Patrick took a moment to take a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing servant, downing it quickly before taking another. He felt trapped by what his father and no doubt Red John had conspired to arrange for him again without his consent. As he watched Lord Craig beg yet another dance from his sister, he could feel her dismay all the way across the room. He ached for her, as much as he did for himself. Despite how it might look, he couldn't help himself from bringing his second glass to his lips, fully intending to dispatch that one in the same manner as the first.

When the crier called the next guests, he nearly spewed out his first sip, and his eyes flew to the door in a surprise so great he felt like someone had physically hit him in the stomach with a sledgehammer.

"Teresa," he whispered. She was ravishing, the blue-green dress making her eyes sparkle like emeralds, her dark hair piled atop her head in an intricate design, while pearl earbobs trembled with each step she made into the ballroom. She seemed nervous, out of place, and a love so deep, so pure, washed over him like the calm waves of the distant sea.

He felt himself walking toward her, his total focus on her face, even though in the back of his mind he knew acknowledging her could result in ramifications he could not even fathom. The crowd parted at his approach, and they already had been staring at the strangers speculatively. When the prince stopped before Lady Teresa, the crowd drew a collective gasp. Lady Teresa's eyes widened at Patrick's beauty, and she felt dumbstruck at his sudden royal attention. This, no doubt, given the familiar golden curls arranged artlessly upon his head, was Prince Patrick of Maliborough, whose ring, hair, and note were concealed in the drawstring reticule at her wrist.

He reached for her hand, and she belatedly curtsied, casting her eyes to the floor in trained deference.

"Lovely lady," he murmured, as she rose and looked bravely into his stormy eyes. "May I have this dance?"

A/N: Of course, what would a fairy tale be without a ball? The stage is now set for some upcoming fireworks. I hope you're here for the next chapter.

Until then, please be on the lookout for my newest story, my first collaborative fic with the wonderful writer, waterbaby134. It's a post-finale romance entitled "Scarlet Woman." I hope you check it out!


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: I'm so glad many of you were pleased with the advancement of the last chapter. I hope this one pleases you even more.

Chapter 16

"How can I refuse, Your Highness?" said Lady Teresa. She saw the small grin on the prince's face in response to her enigmatic words.

"You cannot," he replied, and swept her onto the floor as the violins swelled.

Her small, gloved hand in his was cool, her eyes large in her sweet, familiar face. His hand rested on her tiny waist, and she held her voluminous skirt with her other hand as they began to waltz. It was all he could do not to pull her against his body and capture her lips with his. He'd missed her. He loved her. He wanted her still. His heart ached that there was no sign of recognition in her lovely green eyes.

He noticed she was beginning to feel uncomfortable under his intense gaze, so he tried to make his expression more benign.

"So," he began, "you are apparently a mysterious princess from a far off land…what brings you to my humble kingdom?"

She narrowed her eyes, for she couldn't help the feeling he was laughing at her. "I'm no princess, Your Highness, and my land is not so far—just one kingdom over—Hartshorne. And," she concluded, looking around pointedly at the majesty of the ballroom, "your kingdom is hardly _humble. _Why, what you've spent on this ball alone could support the people of my village for a year."

It was all Patrick could do not to laugh aloud at hearing her impassioned speech about her people, for it brought him back to the first day they'd met, when she'd hated him on sight just for being born. But despite her spirited protest, he was suddenly saddened to realize that some of the old light was missing from her eyes. When he looked more closely, he could see new frown lines on her forehead and about her lips, and shadows beneath her emerald gaze. She must have been devastated to have lost their child. His fingers tightened involuntarily on her hand. She looked at him curiously.

"Forgive the overzealousness of the decorations, my lady. The attendees expect a certain...grandeur. After all, their taxes have paid for this, and we haven't had a ball in nearly six years."

She lifted her pert nose at his explanation, and he smiled inside at her reverse snobbery. "And you didn't answer my last question," he concluded.

"Which was?" she prompted, although she knew damn well what he'd asked. He smiled indulgently.

"What brings you to Maliborough?"

She glanced around the ballroom, then stepped closer to him. He couldn't prevent his heart from soaring at their increased proximity. She lowered her voice so he could barely hear it over the orchestra, her soft tones lending an air of intimacy that tore at his heart. "Might I have a word with you, Your Highness? In private? I have something I must return to you."

He was taken aback. What had he left in Sacraham that was so important that she felt the need to come all this way? His gaze suddenly fell on the two familiar men that had escorted her, who hovered just on the edge of the crowd, leaning against the wall and drinking some of the overly sweet orange punch that was always expected at affairs such as this. They were watching Teresa closely, protectively. Perhaps they had returned the horse he'd given Sir Kimball.

"What is it you have brought me?" he asked, his voice matching hers in volume, but surpassing it in intensity. "What could possibly surpass the gift of your beauty?"

She ignored his pretty compliment.

"I'd prefer we kept this as private as possible, Your Highness. Suffice it to say, it is something that concerns both you and your sister on a deeply personal level."

His thoughts were racing. When he'd met Kimball on the road that day, he had not recognized him, had not acted in any way that would suggest he remembered him or the kidnapping plot. A returned horse would not concern Grace. He'd scoured Teresa's barn to be sure every one of his and Grace's belongings had been recovered. He must have made a terrific oversight, and he feared his error had the potential to nullify his agreement with Red John. If he saw her here…

Teresa was watching the emotions skittering across his face inquisitively, anxious for his response. He focused on her eyes again, trying to compose himself.

"I'm intrigued," he managed, his voice admirably calm. "Meet me fifteen minutes after our dance is done. Walk down the main corridor, counting the doors as you go. The atrium is the tenth door on the right. I will try my best to slip away."

She looked at him speculatively. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but I don't want to give you the wrong impression…this is nothing in the least bit…improper, I assure you."

He grinned wickedly at her. "You mean, you aren't proposing some illicit assignation?"

She blushed to the roots of her hair, but her protest was strong. "No, of course not."

"A pity," he murmured, just as the final notes of the waltz were struck, allowing her no time for a rejoinder. He bowed and she curtsied, but before he released her hand, Patrick could not resist kissing her knuckles and peering into her eyes. "Fifteen minutes," he whispered, and he pressed a small key against her palm.

"Fifteen minutes, Your Highness."

Princess Lorelei watched the couple's interaction with extreme annoyance. Her eyes went as cold as a snake's, and she looked impatiently around for her real father, who had yet to make an appearance. Prince Patrick was hers, and no slip of a girl in a hand-me-down dress was going to interfere with her plans for him. She would summon Red John. He would know what to do.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Grace heard, then saw the arrival of Lady Teresa and Sirs Rigsby and Kimball, her heart had skipped a beat and her eyes had flown to the doorway. How could it be? Could her heartfelt longing have conjured them here like magic? She watched Rigsby, hovering close to his wife, in ill-fitting breeches and a jacket that was slightly short in the arms. She'd forgotten how very tall and imposing he was, but the blue of his jacket enhanced the blue of his eyes, and her pulse quickened at the very sight of him. As Lady Teresa accepted her brother's invitation to dance, Grace watched as Rigsby and Sir Kimball moved to stand out of the way, even behind the wallflowers, but their eyes remained trained on Teresa.

Grace motioned to her lady in waiting. The young girl, busy gossiping with other girls her age in attendance, hurried toward her mistress. She curtsied dutifully.

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"Annabeth, do you see that tall man leaning against the wall over there?"

"Yes, Your Highness. The one in blue?"

"Yes. I want you to send him to me. I'd like an introduction."

Annabeth looked askance at the princess. She'd never known her to be so forward with a man before. As a matter of fact, she'd never seen her behave with a man in any fashion, save for this night when she'd danced with Lord Craig and a few other gentlemen unintimidated by her title. This man must have immediately struck her fancy. She smiled in approval at the lonely young princess, whom she'd heard crying on many occasions in recent months.

"As you wish, Your Highness."

Grace watched anxiously as Annabeth made her way through the crush of people, and for a moment, she lost sight of her in the crowd. Just as she saw the girl approach Rigsby, Sir Craig chose that inopportune moment to present himself Grace again.

He inclined his head. "Your Highness, would it be too scandalous of me to ask you to dance again?" He looked around at the other guests, many of whom were looking at him and the princess speculatively. "As you know, many still remember your father's promise to mine. They're expecting it, you see, which puts me in a rather awkward position."

Grace tore her gaze from Rigsby in annoyance. How she wanted to give this man a set-down for what he'd done to her at Hartshorne, but in his mind, that had never occurred. And besides, her father was watching them with a weighted stare. She sighed and smiled politely at Sir Craig.

"I suppose we must dance again this night. But you'll forgive me that it cannot be the next one. I've promised it to another."

"But of course. Naturally you'd be the most popular lady at the ball. I shall wait my turn like the other poor saps." He grinned with practiced charm, and she nodded at him before turning to meet Sir Rigsby. Lord Craig stepped aside, but he watched the proceedings with keen interest.

Rigsby had been surprised to be dragged from his vantage point at the request of the princess, but the young girl had been insistent, and who was Rigsby to deny the request of the lady of the house?

Annabeth cleared her throat nervously, having never performed the duty of a royal introduction.

"May it please Her Royal Highness, Princess Grace of Maliborough, I present Sir Rigsby of Sacraham, from the Kingdom of Hartshorne." She bowed to her princess, then stepped aside so the couple might exchange pleasantries. Grace nodded and Rigsby bowed low.

"Very prettily done, Annabeth. You may go."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

Grace turned back to her _new_ acquaintance.

"Now, Sir Rigsby. You've come a long way for a ball."

"Yes, Your Highness," he said a little nervously. Indeed, he stood before not only a princess, but the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes upon. All coherent thoughts seemed to have left him as he gazed upon her vibrant red hair, lovely figure, and soulful amber eyes. This was the woman whose lock of hair he'd held between his fingers.

When she smiled at him, he nearly melted into the floor.

"Are you quite all right, Sir Knight?"

Rigsby swallowed. "Yes, Your Highness. I'm…I'm just…surprised that you would want to meet me."

"Why, of course I would. You're a handsome stranger, and I want you to feel welcome."

"Thank you, Your—"

"Please," she said, because she couldn't bear to do otherwise, because she wanted to hear her name on his lips, just once, no matter how inappropriate, no matter how forward. "You must call me Grace."

"Oh, Your Highness, I couldn't…"

"I insist," she said regally. The current waltz ended, and another, more jaunty tune began. Grace looked at Rigsby expectantly. He flushed, cleared his throat, and bowed.

"Grace," he said, softly. "Might I have the pleasure of this dance?"

Her lips formed another tremulous smile. "I would be honored, Sir Rigsby."

As he swept her to the dance floor, Rigsby found he'd forgotten all about why he was there, forgotten the fact that he was married, forgotten about everything save the beautiful woman in his arms.

Nearby, Sir Craig watched the nobody from nowhere dancing with his intended, saw the enraptured look on the princess's face, and his brain suffused with anger. This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kimball watched in annoyance his two companions, happily dancing with royalty. He couldn't imagine that any of this was a coincidence. The prince and princess, whose ransom note was currently in Lady Teresa's reticule, had taken a bizarre interest in two interlopers from Hartshorne. He watched as the waltz ended and the prince escorted Teresa to the edge of the dance floor. Then his eyes went to Rigsby and the princess, but when he looked about again he found he'd lost sight of Lady Teresa.

He began to move through the crowd, not even bothering to pardon himself as he pushed past the revelers until he stood behind a marble pillar in a darkened corner, and heard the sound of two men talking. His ears perked up when he heard indirect mention of his friends.

"I want them gone," said the angry young man. "I know they're from Hartshorne, but they have no business here. Princess Grace is mine, and I heard Prince Patrick is promised to Princess Lorelei."

"Indeed," said the voice of a much older man. "The prince has been quite busy lately, finding ways to subvert me. You are correct, Lord Craig. Something must be done indeed."

Kimball saw a brief flash of a deep red robe, then the voices trailed off down the hallway and into a room behind a softly closed door. It was then that he saw Lady Teresa again, she too moving purposefully down the hallway. She was too far away for him to call without drawing attention to himself, so he followed her down the long, dimly lit corridor. Along the way, he saw couples moving together in shadowed alcoves, soft sighs indicating what they were up to. Doors closed and clicked, and behind them he heard faint laughter and passionate cries.

Kimball had been to enough balls in his time to know they were perfect places to meet beautiful women and arrange trysts in private rooms. He'd actually done so himself a time or two, and grinned to himself at the memories. Then he thought of Summer and sobered again, wishing she was with him now, that he might have snuck off with her into some dark alcove. He shook his head to clear those unproductive thoughts, and as he squinted into the corridor, he realized in annoyance that he had lost Lady Teresa again, vanished as if into thin air.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa found the tenth door easily enough, and unlocked it with the key the prince had given her. Given the rather tawdry goings-on she'd encountered along the way, she wondered if she would be entering the prince's private boudoir rather than the promised atrium. But it was indeed an atrium, lit by lamps at each corner of the large, square space, and further brightened by the distant sliver of moon, visible through the domed glass roof high above. A beautiful fountain gurgled in the center of the marble floor—Poseidon pointing his trident heavenward, while fish and sea nymphs swam at his feet. Night birds sang in trees growing tall in giant pots, their leaves still lush, isolated from the changing seasons, and flowers similar to the ones in the ballroom scented the warm air with their lush fragrance.

She sat on a bench by the fountain until she heard the doorknob turn. Prince Patrick had entered the atrium. She rose and curtsied as he walked purposefully toward her. She was struck again by the man's beauty, felt a fluttering in her stomach at the very sight of him. She knew she shouldn't feel that way about a complete stranger, not to mention that she was a married woman and had no right to such feelings.

"Let's get to it, shall we?" she asked without preamble, removing the reticule from her wrist.

"Of course. Might we sit first?" he asked in some amusement at her straightforward approach.

"As you wish," she said stiffly, and regained her seat on the bench. He sat beside her, his body facing the opposite direction. Teresa had the odd feeling that he wasn't in any hurry to find out what she had for him, and suddenly she became deeply suspicious.

"Do you know me?" she asked.

He stared at her, his expression stricken, then he quickly covered his reaction with a grin.

"We just met in the ballroom, Lady Teresa. Have you forgotten me so quickly?"

She gave him a look of extreme annoyance. "You know what I mean."

"Had we met before, I would have remembered," he said evenly.

"I'm not so sure about that." She opened her velvet drawstring bag and withdrew the ring. "Does this belong to you?"

And then Patrick remembered the one loose end he had left untied. The ransom request. When he'd seen Kimball on the road all those months before, the knight hadn't recognized him, had seemed to have made no connection with the royal crest on his coach, so Patrick had assumed the spell had worked completely. He hadn't given a second thought to the contents of the man's saddlebags, for indeed, he had no horse.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, feigning surprise. It was best he too pretended he had no memory. It might be the only thing that saved her.

"Did you happen to notice one of the men who escorted me, Sir Kimball?"

Patrick shrugged. "I saw you had two men with you, but I took no particular notice of them. I only had eyes for you." His white teeth flashed in the lamplight.

She sniffed. "Well, you've met Kimball before. Coming from Sacraham some six months ago, you gave a man and a young woman one of your horses and a pair of boots. Do you remember that?"

Patrick nodded. He supposed there was no need to deny events that happened post-spell. "Yes, I remember. Poor fellow. He must have met with some very bad luck. I hope you didn't come all this way to return that horse. It was a gift…"

Teresa held up the ring, its jewels glittering in the light from the flickering lamps. "No, we kept the horse. But then the horse he'd lost returned home on its own and we found this in his saddlebag."

"May I?" he asked, and she set his ring in the palm of his hand. He pretended to study it a moment, remembering with vivid clarity how Teresa had removed it from his finger. He swallowed back the pain and met her eyes again.

"This is my ring. It was taken from me many months ago. I thought it was…lost forever. Thank you for returning it." He slipped it solemnly back on his finger.

She watched him a moment, trying to decide whether he was lying or not. She could not. "There's more," she said, and reached into her reticule again. She brought out a lock of hair, and held the blonde curl up to his head.

"I believe this also belongs to you," she said.

He reached for her wrist and pulled it away, not looking at the hair but into her eyes. Teresa felt her breath catch at the contact, felt the warmth of his hand plainly through her glove. "A keepsake perhaps," he said softly, "from a former lover. Maybe we _have_ met," he said, moving his head to within an inch of hers. His voice was teasing, but his eyes were boldly inviting. She moved purposefully away and he reluctantly dropped her wrist.

How was this happening so fast with this man? She felt a deep connection with him, a lust-filled pull that was at once extremely exciting and utterly terrifying. She supposed his attentions were a balm to her aching heart, but despite her desire for an annulment, she was still married, and would not break her vows with this man—no matter how royal and handsome he was.

"One last thing," she said hoarsely. She cleared her throat and reached again into her bag.

"Are you a magician?" Patrick asked in amusement. "I once saw one pull a large rodent out of a bag that small."

She ignored him—or tried to—and presented him with the ransom note. He'd been expecting that, of course, and he was still struggling in his mind about how to explain it. Before she could open the small, folded paper, however, he snatched it up with his hand. "Don't tell me—a love note. You've admired me from afar, fair Teresa, and have come to proclaim your feelings in person."

Her lips quirked as she tried not to laugh. His ego knew no bounds. "No. It is a letter, signed by you, Your Highness, addressed to the king. Apparently, you had been ransomed."

"Ransomed? Why, I have never in my life been traded like a horse—not even a thorough-bred stallion such as myself," he grinned.

"But the note, the ring, the hair—how do you explain all of this?"

He tapped his full lower lip in thought, drawing her eyes to its sensual curve. "I suspect your Sir Kimball must have foiled a plot to kidnap me when I visited Hartshorne six months ago. Tensions are great between our kingdoms; perhaps these things were stolen from me in preparation for my abduction. Your man is a hero! I will make him a knight in my country as well."

"But—but he has no memory of this. Indeed, none of us have any memory—"

"He is perhaps being modest, Lady Teresa. Such a man as he deserves much more than a horse and some second-hand boots."

Teresa was becoming even more frustrated. She unfolded the note and thrust it at him angrily. "What of _this_, Your Highness? Read it. Isn't it written in your hand?"

He glanced at it indulgently. "A forgery. Don't you think I would remember being held hostage?" he asked, leaning again toward her. He picked up her hand and took the note from it, crumbling it and tossing it blindly into the fountain. She gasped as one of the only ties to her unknown past was ruined as if it were nothing. She rose as if to retrieve it.

"No!"

He pulled her back down to the bench, and she sat again, even more closely than before, where she panted as if he'd been chasing her. She became enthralled by his eyes, by the firm touch of his hand, by the warmth of his breath against her face.

_Just one kiss, _Patrick told himself. _Just one, and I will let her go. I can live on the memory of this moment for years…_

"Had I been _your_ captive, my lady," he whispered against her lips. "I would gladly become your slave, but would never wish to be rescued. I would fulfill your every desire; see to your every need. I would—"

Suddenly there came the crash of breaking glass from high above them, and the whoosh of something heavy falling fast through the air. In the blink of an eye, Patrick had pushed Teresa against a wall, covering her with his body as glass rained down around them. Instinctively, he formed a magically protective shield around them, causing the dangerous shards to fall harmlessly to the floor. The discordant sounds of shattering glass on the hard marble was momentarily deafening, and he covered Teresa's ears with his hands, pressing his body tightly against hers, his face in her soft neck.

When silence at last returned, Patrick turned to look at what had fallen through the dome of the atrium and saw to his horror the body of a man in dark robes, impaled on Poseidon's trident. Teresa gasped behind him. The danger of the falling glass having subsided, he released the spell and walked toward the fountain, now flowing red with blood.

"Who—who is that?" she asked.

"Panzer," he muttered, recognizing the Dark Wizard who had helped him.

"Who?"

A flash of red light hailed the appearance of another wizard, this one dressed in familiar, cardinal red robes. He stood before them, like a demon summoned from the very bowels of Hell. Red John.

"Well, my prince, you have been quite the busy boy, haven't you?" He glanced meaningfully at Teresa, then at the body of the fallen wizard. "You see what befalls those who betray me? Tell me, Your Highness, what will prevent me now from exacting the same punishment upon you…both?"

A/N: And so the showdown has begun. Please keep your fingers crossed that I can begin to bring this to a satisfying conclusion. This story has been more challenging than I had ever thought it would be. Thanks for continuing to read it.

And if you haven't been reading my new fic with waterbaby134, "Scarlet Woman,"we'd love for you to check it out. We've been so please at its overwhelming reception.

More chapters to come with both stories! Be sure to put them on story alert.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Sorry for the extended wait for this chapter; I really struggled with this all week to try to make it as epic as I'd promised. I hope it meets your approval and isn't a huge letdown.

I do appreciate all your reviews and favorites, as well as those of you new to my writing, who are going back and reading my older stories. Thanks so much to all of you! I'm behind as usual with my review replies, but I'll get to them as soon as I can. A note of caution for this chapter: there is a little bit of violence and gory bloodshed in this chapter-not really at M levels, I don't think, but thought I should warn you nonetheless.

Now, let the battle begin…

Chapter 17

Instinctively, Prince Patrick stepped in front of Teresa, but she was no wallflower herself, and was anxious to find out why a wizard was looking so pointedly at her. She stepped away from the wall and stood beside the prince.

"What's going on here?" she asked, including Prince Patrick as well as the Red Wizard.

Red John merely laughed. "Still in the dark, I see," he said.

"Yes," said Patrick, not looking at Teresa. "No bargains have been broken. Let her go."

"Oh? Would you like to restate that, Your Highness? _No_ bargains?" He glanced at the macabre position of the impaled Dark Wizard. "An interesting thing about ravens, Prince: they talk to other ravens, especially to their mates." As if on cue, two of the black birds dropped down from the open dome to alight in the nearby trees, squawking to each other happily. Patrick couldn't tell one bird from another, but he assumed one of them was his borrowed raven, Darcy. Teresa's eyes narrowed as she remembered the strange raven who'd seemed to be watching her while she hung the laundry.

"I can explain," said Patrick, trying to remain calm, knowing that if he didn't diffuse the situation, Teresa may well be in the middle of whatever was about to happen between him and his mentor. He recalled a similar scene six months before, at Hartshorne, and how Teresa's injury had begun this entire hellish business.

Red John raised a black eyebrow. "No need for explanations. Darcy told my Dumar she had a new master. It didn't take too much reasoning to deduce whom it might be. You made another deal with Panzer, I assume. That old degenerate, who took pleasure in killing young girls. Unfortunately, he chose to approach my daughter, which was why I put a spell on him to shield her against him. He was using you, Your Highness, to help get the spell lifted so he could get his perverted hands upon my child. Well, he won't be doing that now, will he?"

Anger simmered inside of Patrick, at the hypocrisy, the sheer evil of the man.

"Casting stones, aren't you, John? You had no qualms in killing my child for your own twisted plans."

"That, my arrogant boy, was _your_ father's doing, remember? But let's not rehash the past…"

"Yes, _let's_," said Teresa, her own anger coming to the fore. She stepped forward to address Red John, and Patrick felt his stomach clench at her reckless temerity. "I demand to know how I could possibly have the prince's ring. I demand to know why someone cast a spell on me and my friends , causing us to lose our memory. I've no doubt it was a wizard's doing, and the way you're looking at me, sir, I think I can reasonably assume it was you."

Red John nodded. "It was. But I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge the details of the reasons behind it. It will have to remain a mystery, I'm afraid." He gave her a look of mock regret.

Patrick's heart had accelerated, hopeful that the wizard might confess to everything, but no, for some reason that he couldn't deduce, he was keeping their bargain. Teresa, however, was not so easily dissuaded.

"How have you the right to control people's lives in this way? You are no god. You might be evil, but neither are you the devil. Make an agreement with me, wizard. Allow me to remember those missing days, and I will swear to anything-"

"No!" exclaimed Patrick, grabbing her arms and turning her roughly to face him. His eyes were wildly pleading. "Make no deals with this one. You are wrong when you say he isn't the devil. See for yourself what he did to Panzer. And not only did he kill my child, he also killed my wife that same night. All part of an agreement with my father. Please, turn around and leave this place, take your men with you and go home. Forget you ever met me again, I beg of you."

She gasped. "Again? I knew it! Who are you to me? Why were you in Sacraham six months ago?"

Red John's wicked laughter interrupted them. "Your questions are pointless, Lady Teresa. He will not answer them, if he knows what's good for you." Red John met Patrick's eyes, and there was an unmistakable light of warning in their usual darkness.

"What's good for _me_?" she said indignantly.

Patrick looked at the woman he loved. She was so achingly beautiful, so passionately insistent in her search for answers. It was going to break his heart all over again, but he had to get her out of there, no matter the cost. His hands tightened almost painfully on her arms.

"Yes," said Patrick. "And now I must insist that you leave, or I'll have you escorted out."

He was shaking on the inside, but he used his sternest royal expression, the one that with anyone else would have brooked no argument.

"No," replied Teresa, completely unafraid and totally oblivious to the danger around her. She pulled away from his grip with surprising ease. "Not without the answers I seek."

"Teresa—"

The door to the atrium opened suddenly, and in stepped Princess Loralei, escorted by a burly guard in the livery of the Kingdom of Vegas, holding on to an angrily struggling Kimball. The princess assessed the situation coolly, her eyes immediately resting on Patrick, to whom she gave a wistful smile, then to Teresa, who was gifted with an angry glare, but when her gaze rested upon her father, they took on an almost rapturous glow. She inclined her head to Sir Kimball.

"This one was skulking around outside the door. Unfortunately, he didn't have one of these," she said, holding up a key.

Red John smiled indulgently at his progeny. "Very good, my dear. Sir Kimball is a happy addition to the party. Where is Lady Teresa's other escort?"

Lorelei shrugged. "Sir Craig is seeing to him," she said ominously.

Teresa was infuriated. "Let him go," she demanded. "You have no right to treat us this way, especially when we have no idea why."

Lorelei began walking leisurely toward Teresa, her large brown eyes showing a touch of humor and what might also be called pity. Patrick moved instinctively closer to Teresa.

"Lady Teresa,"said Lorelei, "you must not allow yourself to become so upset. Not after all you've been through."

Teresa paled. "Who are you? And what do you know of my business?"

Lorelei ignored her first question.

"There, there, my lady. Losing a child is a terrible thing, I've heard. But you peasant girls seem to have no problem popping out offspring like puppies. You'll have more little mutts, I'm sure." She smiled reassuringly.

Patrick swallowed, his eyes glued to the princess. "How did you-?"

Princess Lorelei gave him a soft wink and a knowing smile.

Teresa didn't know where to look. Only her husband, Kimball, and her father knew of her failed pregnancy. But these strangers, these _royal_ strangers, seemed to know all about it. A dawning feeling of deep trepidation was bubbling up from inside of her, and she focused on Prince Patrick, who was fairly seething now with some unknown rage.

"How would you know about her pregnancy," he was asking Red John now. "Was it from Darcy?"

Lorelei was the one who laughed. "You are to marry _me_, Your Highness. There could be no other claims to the throne, no by-blows coming out of the woodwork at some future date—my father would never allow that to happen."

"That's enough, my dear," said Red John, though his proud demeanor belied his reprimand. His daughter looked suitably chastened, however, and moved to stand beside the wizard.

Teresa felt suddenly dizzy, and she would have fallen had not the prince caught hold of her arm and steadied her. She met his stormy eyes and saw the truth there at last.

"You—" she managed, before fury took hold of him and he released her abruptly. With a wave of his hand, he flung Red John against the wall so hard he heard bones crack. Patrick was no longer shaking; his deep rage made him icy cold and determined once and for all to be rid of this monster who had claimed the life of a second child. He felt the power of this anger flowing through his body as he walked casually over to his foe. For once, Patrick was unafraid to look into the eyes of evil.

"You killed my unborn child," he said tightly, his face close to Red John's. "For what? For your desire to control a kingdom? For…power?" A raise of his finger and the wizard's throat tightened.

"_Three_…kingdoms…Your Highness," said Red John, his voice strangled, his breathing satisfactorily unsteady as he lay pinned and in pain against the stone wall.

"I am going to obliterate you from this earth," Patrick said, deadly soft. "You are going to pay for every innocent life you have stolen, especially the ones from me."

Red John chuckled. "It will take more than your little magic tricks to kill me, boy."

The sound of a dagger whizzing through the air briefly caught the prince's attention, and he turned minutely to see the weapon hit its mark—Princess Lorelei's guard. The man had been moving toward Patrick to try to stop him, no doubt, and from Teresa's stance and look of satisfaction, the blade had apparently come from beneath her skirts. The guard fell to the marble floor, the dagger protruding from his chest. Lorelei gasped, and rushed toward the door to escape and get help, but Kimball, now free, grabbed her and held the squirming princess tightly in arms of steel.

"Unhand me, you brute!" she protested.

That momentary distraction was all it took to ease the prince's hold on Red John, and with a rush of energy, he broke free of the spell and it was Patrick's turn to be caught in a vortex of power. He felt himself hurling upward toward the ceiling, where he knew jagged shards of glass were all that remained of the atrium's dome. He struggled against the invisible bonds that held him, looking helplessly down at the scene below.

"No!" yelled Teresa. Acting quickly, she ran the short distance to the dead guard and pulled the dagger from his chest, then held the blade to the princess's pretty neck. Lorelei gasped as the sharp point pressed against her smooth skin.

"Release him!" Teresa cried, as Patrick was just inches away from being cut to ribbons. His upward progress stopped, and he hung in mid-air, awaiting his fate. Red John's face contorted in anger.

"Release _her_, my lady, or after I am finished with your lover, I'll put an end to you, your fellow thieves, and your doddering old father back in Sacraham."

Teresa paled, but pressed the dagger more firmly against Lorelei's neck, this time drawing blood. The princess's eyes grew round with surprise at the pain.

Red John raised a hand and was about to do something horrible with that dagger when the prince managed to point toward Red John. A burst of electricity issued forth from his fingertips, knocking the evil wizard to the floor. Unfortunately, the spell on Patrick was abruptly broken, and he fell to the floor himself, a five-storey drop. He was able to slow his momentum enough that he wasn't a broken bag of bones on the floor, but the impact still knocked the wind from his body and he rolled onto his back, staring up at the crescent moon as he gasped for breath.

By this time, Red John was jerkily rising to his feet, the powerful jolt he'd received momentarily incapacitating him. Teresa still held the dagger to Princess Lorelei's throat, but Patrick noticed her eyes were now trained on him, looking terribly concerned for his safety. From his place on the floor, he almost smiled that she was there with him again, caring about him, protecting him. But his face became grim once more when he saw Red John advancing again on Teresa.

With all the anger, pain and suffering that the Red Wizard had brought to him, for his children, for his wife, the golden locked prince summoned forth all his strength, focusing on the broken glass that littered the floor.

"Red John!" Patrick called, his voice booming even in the large structure.

The wizard turned, but by then it was too late, for he was immediately bombarded with countless shards of glass. They slid into his body like hot knives through butter, so quickly that he had no time to deflect them as they punctured vital arteries all at once, in his thighs, his neck, his chest. His agonized cries were ear-splitting and terrible, as Red John's hands flailed from wound to bleeding wound, trying in vain to find the focus above the pain to pull the splinters out with his mind. Still, he remained standing, a testament to the strength of his dark sorcery.

Teresa and the others moved back into the shadows away from the gory spectacle, from the flying glass, from the blood spurting from the wizard now like a fountain. Princess Lorelei's screams competed in volume with her father's death throes, and Kimball put a hand over her mouth to silence her.

Patrick had saved the largest piece for last, for he'd wanted the wizard to be aware of what was happening to him, to suffer as much pain as possible before he flung the final deadly shard into the Red Wizard's pulsating forehead. It lodged there with the sickening sound of severed bone and then soft tissue.

"That was for my children," Prince Patrick muttered to himself as the deafening cries abruptly ceased.

At last, Red John fell to his knees, then forward, the force of the impact on the marble floor pushing the glass farther into his mangled body. The blood quickly pooled around him, contrasting garishly with the whiteness of the stone. Teresa involuntarily closed her eyes in horror, and Princess Lorelei slumped in Kimball's arms in a shocked swoon. He let her fall gently to the floor.

Exhausted, Prince Patrick barely found the strength to drag himself to the bench before the fountain, but his eyes remained on Teresa, praying desperately that he had been right about his suspicions six months before as Teresa lay on her supposed deathbed. He'd been convinced at the time that the surgeon's apprentice, Partridge, who had admitted working for Red John, had done something to Teresa, some magical spell or potion that had made her appear to be in a coma. Red John had denied it, and at the time, Patrick had been so frightened that she would die that he would have done anything to save her, even if it meant not listening to his first instincts. And the wizard had played to his fear of losing yet another woman he loved, tempting him into the agreement that had washed him from Teresa's life.

But months of working with Red John, enhancing his own mystical senses, led him now to the conclusion that it was likely his mentor had lied to him, that the training had been a tool to mold him into his disciple, to marry his daughter and cement his control over the three neighboring kingdoms—Maliborough, Hartshorne, and Vegas-for generations to come. And now, the spell broken with Red John's death, Patrick would see if his first instincts had indeed been correct. He remembered the words of the ancient book of magic:

_Upon a wizard's death, all his spells, save those involving mortal death, shall be reversed, and all will be as it was before…_

When Red John had cast his spell, Teresa had been in a deep sleep. If he was wrong, and she'd truly been dying, Patrick would lose her all over again, this time forever.

He'd just caught his breath when he held it again, waiting for Teresa to open her eyes and see him—_really_ see him. Kimball was the first to remember him, and the knight's eyes widened as he looked from Patrick to Teresa and back again.

"I—I remember," he said. "Everything."

Patrick nodded, but his attention refocused on Teresa, just as the bloodied dagger slipped from her hand to the floor with a metallic clatter, and he watched in horror as she dropped to the marble in a heap of blue silk.

"Teresa!"

New energy shot through him and he ran to her prone body, dropping down beside Kimball.

"Boss?" her loyal knight was saying. He was patting her cheeks gently. Patrick laid his head against her breasts, tears forming in his eyes as they both stilled so he could listen. He looked up at Kimball.

"She's alive," he managed to say around his tight throat and thrumming heart.

A pounding on the door startled them both.

"Open this door! In the name of the King, I demand you open this bloody door at once!"

Patrick looked up from Teresa, at the carnage left by three horrific deaths, then again at the two women, seemingly lifeless on the floor. To say it looked rather suspicious was an understatement. But he was the prince, after all, and everything he said would be taken as law.

He went to the door and calmly opened it. He was sure he looked disheveled and dirty from rolling about on the floor and battling with a wizard, but that couldn't be helped.

"Your Highness," bowed the knights immediately, surprised to see their prince emerging from a room about which there had been complaints of violent crashes and loud screams. "Someone heard noises, and we feared foul deeds…,"explained one knight awkwardly. Patrick stepped out into the dim hall and closed the door to just a crack so they couldn't see inside the atrium.

"Nothing is amiss. Some friends and I were merely playing a…a game. Go back to the ball; I'm certain your services are more needed there."

"Of course, Your Highness. Are you sure you don't need any other _help_…?" The man asked, unable to hide his skepticism despite the risk of sounding disrespectful.

The fearful reports from the other guests occupying the special rooms in the hallways were very troublesome, and highly contradictory of the prince's mild reaction. He had the strange feeling that the prince was hiding something. Perhaps he was in trouble and unable to ask for it, but then, the knight had little understanding of royal behavior.

"No, but your concern is admirable, Sir Knight, and will be rewarded."

"Thank you—"

The prince stepped back inside the atrium and shut the door again in the knight's stupefied face. Patrick turned back to Teresa, who once again lay still as death. Nearby, Princess Lorelei began to stir.

"Father," she moaned, then sat up, saw Red John's corpse, and promptly began screaming. She rose to her feet, preparing to run to her father's body. Before Kimball could move to stop her, Patrick raised a hand and she abruptly froze in place.

"Thank you," said Kimball dryly.

"Patrick?"

It was the weak voice of Teresa. Both men moved instinctively toward her as her eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened to reveal dazed green eyes, alight now with recognition as she looked upon the prince.

"Yes, my love," Patrick replied. He picked up her hand with both of his and brought it gratefully to his lips.

"Have I been dreaming all this time?" she whispered sleepily, smiling a little.

"No, but I have been locked into a living nightmare for weeks."

Her smile suddenly faded as everything came back to her, not just her time with Patrick, but the time since then. Her marriage to Rigsby. The loss of her baby. Every horrible moment of not knowing what had befallen her on those missing days. She made movements to sit up and Kimball and Patrick helped her.

"What…what have you done to me? To _us_?"

Patrick was taken aback, their happy reunion dampened by the anger flashing in her eyes.

"I did what I thought I had to, to save your life, along with your father's and my sister's. But it seems I was made a fool by Red John. I'm sorry, Teresa. You'll never know how much."

His eyes went involuntarily to her empty womb, tears forming anew at the full realization of their mutual loss, of their miserable time apart. His glance seemed to incite her further, and the next thing he knew, pain was shooting through his nose as her small fist found its mark. He fell back heavily onto his buttocks as she struggled to get to her feet, refusing even Kimball's move to help her.

"You knew about our baby, didn't you?" she demanded, looking down at the injured prince. "You allowed me to marry another man, sacrificing our child to your reckless bargain with the devil."

"I didn't know," he protested, rising himself, forgetting about the ache in his nose in light of the new pain she was inflicting upon his heart. "Not until long after it had happened. And then, only because the raven told me…"

Kimball stood by, awkwardly watching this exchange, shocked in spite of his restored memory that the prince had fathered her child. He didn't quite know how to feel about that, as protective as he was of Lady Teresa, not to mention his friend, Rigsby, whom he'd watched suffer the past several months over a child he must now realize was not his. He cleared his throat now, anxious suddenly to seek out Rigsby who was no doubt wondering what had become of them.

"I'm going to find Rigsby," he said to the pair, who stood locked in silent battle.

Lady Teresa barely acknowledged him with a nod, and neither of them spared him a glance as he strode quickly to the door.

"You left us," Teresa said to Patrick quietly, painfully, and the tears in her eyes felt like she'd struck him again.

"It was the most painful thing I've ever had to do," he said, making a tentative step toward her. "It was like losing a part of myself. But I would do it again, if I didn't know any better. Your life is worth a thousand of mine. And if I had known about our…our baby—" he swallowed hard over the lump in his throat—"I would have moved Heaven and Earth to come back and protect you both. I love you, Teresa. Please say there is a chance you can forgive me."

She looked at his eyes, stormy and tormented as a wind tossed sea. She believed that he'd felt he was doing the right thing. She was grateful that he'd saved her father, but what his complicity with Red John had taken from them—from _all_ of them—seemed almost too high a price to pay. She had to turn away from the intensity of his gaze to think a moment about what everything meant now. She was married to another man, one who had also suffered because of two wizards who thought they'd play God with their lives. Rigsby must be as torn up now as she was.

She felt the sudden warmth of the prince's hands on the backs of her arms, felt the stirring of his breath at the nape of her neck. She shivered involuntarily, for despite her anger, the great irony was that she desired him still.

"Please, Teresa," he pleaded brokenly, feeling her tremble at his nearness. "I love you." He lowered his heated lips to the bare strip of skin above her dress, and pressed them there with such longing that she leaned back against him. He pulled her back roughly to his chest, his hands going round her waist to caress her flat stomach. Teresa felt the warm wetness of his tears on her neck, and with a helpless cry, she turned in his arms.

Beneath the anguish and anger, he saw her first hint of forgiveness, and that was all the encouragement he needed to take her quavering lips with his. The familiar fire between them flared as if they had never been separated, but the relief that flooded them both over their long exile made the joining of their mouths nearly unbearable in its intensity. Her lips opened beneath his and his tongue invaded her hot mouth, tasting bitter tears and heated passion along with the sweet tang of long deprivation.

His hands moved to either of her soft, wet cheeks as he fought to consume more of her, ravishing her mouth in the same way he longed to take all of her body. Her moan of desire vibrated through him as she slipped her arms beneath his coat to pull him even closer. He tore his lips from hers, anxious to taste more of her. He kissed his way to the scented warmth of her neck, then lower, to find her delicate décolletage. He felt her hands move to his hair, heard her whispered words of love as she kissed the top of his head in welcome.

"Patrick," she breathed, a bit of sanity returning now that his mouth was no longer fused with hers. "We have to stop…you will be missed…your sister…"

"Hmm?" he said, hovering over the mound of one small breast. Unbidden, the image of Grace rose to his mind and he raised his head to look at Teresa's face, lust and concern warring in her eyes.

"Grace," he said aloud. Lord Craig's memory would have returned as well, and he may well be attempting to regain what he thought was his. RIgsby and Kimball were there, but Patrick would not make the same mistake again and allow someone he loved to be without his protection. He moved shakily away from Teresa, unable to resist one last light kiss on her swollen lips.

"There will be more time for this, I promise," he said vehemently.

"Yes," she said, but she too was anxious now to find her friends, fearful of what might befall them at the hands of Lord Craig. He took her small gloved hand in his and they started for the door, only to remember the dilemma that was Princess Lorelei.

"What about her?" Teresa said, the tinge of disgust so obvious in her tone that Patrick nearly smiled. He regarded the frozen princess thoughtfully, then, raising his free hand, said to her: "You will have no memory of what has transpired here. You will return to the ball and enjoy the rest of your evening. Do you understand?"

He released his magical hold upon her and she swayed a bit. He reached down to take her arm, turning her away from the macabre scene within the wrecked atrium.

"I understand," Lorelei murmured, as if in a daze. He led her to the door, opened it, and pushed her gently into the hall, turning her in the right direction. "The ball is that way," he told her. "Follow the sound of the music…"

The prince and Teresa watched her trip lightly toward her destination. Teresa looked up at Patrick in brief annoyance.

"You realize you are playing God again, only this time with _her_ life."

Patrick looked at her in understanding, prepared to do whatever she asked if only to spare another look of disappointment on her lovely face. "Do you want me to release her?" he asked.

Teresa struggled now with her own feelings of hypocrisy, finding herself in the untenable position of being in Patrick's shoes. Her understanding of what he had done to protect her increased tenfold, and she looked after the oblivious princess. Hell would no doubt rain upon them if Lorelei announced to the revelers what had happened in the atrium, would embroil Patrick in a scandal that could ruin him forever.

"No," Teresa said reluctantly. "It is in everyone's best interest that she not remember."

Patrick took her hand again, squeezing it in gratitude. Now, he thought, she was experiencing for herself some of the quandary he'd had when he'd chosen to protect her. He nodded, then turned back toward the atrium door, holding out his hand in amusement for the key. She smiled and retrieved it from her reticule and he took it and turned it in the lock.

"What will you do about the mess we've left behind?" Teresa asked him.

"Don't you worry, my Lady; it will be taken care of. Now, let's see to my sister and to your loyal partners in crime."

They made their way hurried back to the ball, to whatever new danger might await them.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Inside the abandoned atrium, the mated pair of ravens flew down from the trees, alighting upon the bodies of their former masters. Now that the humans were gone, they were free to enjoy a leisurely repast.

A/N: I hope this was worth the wait! Our heroes must endure just a little more danger before they find their promised happy ending. Hopefully your wait won't be as long this time. In the meantime, please check out waterbaby134's recent chapter of our fic, "Scarlet Woman," and I'll try to get my next chapter out to you as soon as possible. Thank you for all your lovely reviews. Please log in so I can respond directly to you!


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Sorry for the long wait for this update. I admit to a little writer's block, plus I was seized by my muse to write for my other fic, "Scarlet Woman." (I hope you are reading that one too! It's a fun post-season 4-finale collaboration with waterbaby134).

This chapter should answer some more of your burning questions, and lead us to the final act of my tale. Please note that the last part is on the "M" side, but hopefully I kept it tasteful.

And now…

Chapter 18

The moment Lord Craig and Sir Rigsby's memories returned, they looked around the ballroom, disoriented. It was a lot to digest, especially for Rigbsy, who realized a few important facts all at once: first, he had not fathered Teresa's baby, had not, in fact, even lain with the lady. Secondly, he was married to a woman whom he considered a boss, a friend, and even, on occasion, a sister. And thirdly, he had just danced with the one woman he'd much rather be married to.

Lord Craig, on the other hand, looked upon Princess Grace with a sudden, blinding rage. It took all his strength of will not to pounce upon her and drag her by that bloody red hair of hers to his carriage and force her to marry him as her father had promised. He realized he'd been somehow duped, since the last six months worth of memories were fully intact as well, and he was fairly certain the blame here must rest with a wizard's spell. He'd bet his life Red John had had something to do with it. If he ever dared to show his face again, Lord Craig would have a few choice words to share with his self-serving advisor.

He was next in line again on the princess's dance card, and he intended to force her to at least keep _that_ promise, despite the rather insistent way that knight he'd once imprisoned was advancing on his fiancé. As it happened, both men arrived to stand before the princess at the very same time.

"Grace," said Rigsby, and as he looked into her eyes, she knew that his memories had returned. Of course that would mean that Lord Craig's had too, and she involuntarily cringed, stepping closer to Rigsby, allowing him to take her hand.

"I believe we have some unfinished business, Your Highness," said Lord Craig, his anger hidden well by his low pronouncement and affable smile.

"No, my Lord," said Rigsby. "It is you and I who left things undone. Shall we avoid a scene and discuss this elsewhere. This time, I won't need to back down because you are threatening innocent women."

"Certainly." Both men bowed to the princess and Lord Craig led Rigsby to a side door, cleverly concealed by the ballroom's ornate paneling.

"No," cried Grace softly, looking frantically around for her brother.

From the other side of the room, she saw that Sir Kimball had just arrived from the main hallway, and she tried to attract his attention with wide eyes and a jerk of her head. He pushed through the throng toward her, his own eyes scanning the crowd for his friend.

"Sir Kimball…do you remember me now?" she asked, her body full of tension.

"Yes, Your Highness. I remember everything."

"Well, then you should know Lord Craig and Sir Rigsby have gone through that door to have a…_discussion." _He detected enough urgency in her tone that he merely nodded and left her side, walking casually toward the door she'd pointed out. "Where is my brother?" she asked him belatedly, but he was too far away and the music and laughter had drowned out her words.

She didn't know what to do, and feared the worst might befall Rigsby, even though she was certain he must be a brave warrior. When she couldn't find Patrick, she looked to her father as her only hope of quietly saving the two men while avoiding scandal, even though she knew the king would want her to marry Lord Craig, and not some lowly former knight.

She moved toward where King Stiles stood talking animatedly with the King of Vegas, tall and still handsome with his shock of white hair and bright blue eyes. He smiled as he saw her approach, but then Prince Patrick and Lady Teresa entered the ballroom, and she abruptly switched directions. She barely acknowledged her father's disapproving frown at her rudeness and nearly rushed to her brother's side.

"Patrick!" she whispered frantically. "Rigsby and Craig remember! They've left through the side door to have some ridiculous duel. Sir Kimball followed, but I'm not sure—"

"Calm yourself, Sister. I'll go and see what I can do. You ladies stay here," he said, including Teresa in his order.

"Not on your life, Jane," she said, "not with my men likely in harm's way."

"Well, I'm going too then," Grace announced.

Patrick looked at both women and rolled his eyes at this ill-timed female stubbornness, then held out his hand for them to precede him through the crowd. They slipped as unobtrusively as they could through the door, but, being royalty, the siblings had had to smile and briefly greet several guests along the way.

The door led to an empty corridor, and Patrick had a fairly good idea where they were headed. As the women followed through the dimly lit hall, Teresa reached for Patrick's hand. He felt warmth seeping all the way from her hand to the rest of his body, and it was very difficult to focus on their mission instead of pulling her into his arms. He settled for a comforting squeeze and a look of longing that made her gasp softly at its intensity. Beside them, Grace couldn't help but grin at her brother's happiness, despite her worry for Sir Rigsby.

In the distance, they could hear the clash of metal upon metal, along with masculine grunts of exertion. As he'd suspected, the men had found the armory. The door was open and the trio walked in to see the long room with its red and cream tiling. Upon the walls were countless swords, shields, and more ancient weapons, most of them still shining and sharp, ready to stab or bludgeon foes at a moment's notice. Patrick noted that three wall brackets were missing their tools.

At each corner of the room stood medieval suits of armor, posed on stands as if solemnly watching the two more modern men, caught up in the age-old dance of a deadly duel. A few of Lord Craig's Hartshorne guards had joined them as witnesses, along with Kimball, who stood by stoically, holding the third sword taken from the wall, ready to lend his blade if Rigsby should need it.

"Do something, Patrick," Grace whispered, not wanting to distract Rigsby.

The prince shook his head. "If Rigsby looks to be in mortal danger, I'll step in, but it's best we give them the chance to fight this out as men. You must be flattered, Grace; they fight for you."

She shot him a look fraught with anger and fear. "Well, I'm not. This is barbaric."

The two men traded hits, their large broadswords clanging together loudly. No elegant fencing foils for these two—it was clearly a fight to the death, with weapons that would more than do the job. Grace cringed at each cry of effort, each clash of steel. She turned her face into her brother's chest, and he held her to him with one hand, Teresa's fingers laced through his other.

"Things are…different now…my Lord," puffed Rigsby, taunting Craig with a grim smile as he raised his sword to strike another blow. "No women to threaten…no guards doing the hard work…"

"Those are the…privileges…that come with being…Lord of the castle," Craig replied, dodging, then pushing the knight back with a barrage of hits. Rigsby deflected them, but the going was difficult against such a worthy opponent. Both men were fit and well-trained, but Craig's style was one of finesse, whereas Rigsby had actually fought in battle. His movements were direct and without artifice. He'd killed many a man with a weapon similar to this one.

They paused in their fighting, stepping back from each other to catch their breaths and wipe their brows upon their shirtsleeves. "You are the one interfering here," Lord Craig continued. "The princess was promised to me at birth; you have no right to subvert the law in this way, going against a royal decree. Besides, we both know you aren't good enough for her."

"Ha," he replied, his breathing heavy. "I do not have to bully women into marrying me against their will. I think that makes me ten times the man you are."

From her place on the sidelines, Grace smiled a little, but then she caught Teresa's eyes and remembered that this was _her_ husband out there fighting, not Grace's, a predicament that seemed insurmountable.

Craig retaliated against the insult with a swing of his blade, but Rigsby jumped back just in time. The duel began anew, but wielding the heavy swords was wearing on them very quickly and both men were panting and seemed on the verge of collapse, as equal opponents. But Prince Patrick wanted Craig out of his sister's life, not for this duel to end in a draw.

_Perhaps a little magic could help things along a bit_, he thought.

Unbeknownst to anyone, he raised a finger, and suddenly Rigsby seemed infused with new energy. The battle quickly turned, and soon Lord Craig found himself on the red and cream floor, holding up one hand in surrender, his sword clattering on the marble tile.

"Do you yield, sir?" asked Rigsby, pointing the tip of his sword at Lord Craig's throat.

"Yes," he rasped. But when Rigsby let down his guard and reached out a gentleman's hand to help him to his feet, Craig seemed to find his own second wind, and he blindly swung his sword. Rigsby would have been eviscerated had he not stepped back in time. Still, the lord's wicked steel slashed through Rigsby's borrowed clothes to leave a painful horizontal cut across his midriff. Rigsby gasped in surprised pain, as did the women who initially felt relief that the battle seemed to have ended.

Angered to his core, Rigsby jabbed his sword forward, piercing Lord Craig's heart. He pulled it back, it's tip dripping blood.

There was another harsh cry of surprise, and Lord Craig fell backwards onto the floor. He did not get up again.

Panting and dizzy, Rigsby dropped his weapon, his hand going to his wound. Grace broke free of her brother's arm and ran to Rigbsy's side. Lord Craig's men were in an uproar, pulling their swords from their side scabbards. Sir Kimball held up his own broadsword, ready to fight for her friend's honor.

Patrick stepped toward the loyal guards. "Stop! We have all witnessed that this was a fair fight, up until your master chose to take advantage of Rigsby's kind mercy. I suggest you bear witness to this matter, and tell the truth of it to all and sundry. Lord Craig is no more. You should take his body back to Hartshorne and leave this place in peace. You must know that you are seriously outnumbered here should I merely call for help."

He raised one hand meaningfully, recognizing some of the men from Hartshorne Castle. "Or perhaps I need call no one else at all."

The men looked at one other, some remembering from the prince's last visit to their kingdom that he was a man of formidable magical power, a wizard to rival Red John. Thinking better of it, they put up their swords, then walked over to their fallen lord.

It was then that King Stiles entered the armory, two of his own guards behind him. He looked at the scene, assessing immediately what had occurred.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the king, shocked to see his daughter's betrothed lying in a pool of blood.

"Lord Craig challenged Sir Rigsby, Father," said Grace from the floor, having torn Rigsby's doublet to use as a compress against his bleeding wound. Teresa knelt beside them, helping Grace apply pressure. "There would be no bloodshed at all had Lord Craig not taken and unfair stroke," she told her father, but her eyes were on Rigbsy's dear face. He was covered in sweat, and the stinging pain was great, yet his eyes were soft when he looked upon his flame-haired nurse.

The king looked at his children in disgust. "Do you wish to start a war? Why on earth didn't you put a stop to this, Patrick?"

"It was not my fight, Father. Unlike some, I do not choose to lift a hand to interfere in the lives of my loved ones." Of course, he would never admit that he had lifted one _finger_.

"Rigsby wants a chance at Grace's hand," Patrick continued. "I think he deserves it now, don't you?"

By this time, Craig's men had lifted their lord and began carrying him to the door.

"Take him out the back way to your carriage," the prince instructed them. "We do not want to frighten the guests. Go home and tell the truth of what transpired here, or I will make a personal visit to Hartshorne to tell my side of it."

They nodded, anxious to leave this place before Prince Patrick chose to shoot blue fire from his fingertips. When they had gone, King Stiles rounded on his son.

"You have ruined everything now. Hartshorne will use this as an excuse to retaliate. We will be at war in a fortnight."

"I will see to it that will not happen."

"Lord Craig is powerful. And once the Red Wizard hears of this, you will be made to suffer, I assure you."

"I think not," replied Patrick. "I killed him earlier tonight."

"You killed…Red John?" Patrick saw a brief flash of fear as the king looked upon his son through new eyes.

"Yes, I did. There will be no more bargains with devils, Father. Furthermore, you will end your agreement with King Vegas and release me from marrying the princess. Do you understand me?"

King Stiles looked momentarily surprised that his son knew of this. "Insolent boy, you will not speak to me this way! I am your father, but I am also your king!"

Prince Patrick raised his hand, his finger poised in the air as if considering doing his own father physical harm. It would be no less than he deserved, of course, but despite his anger, he knew his father loved him, had entered into these contracts in the misguided belief that he was doing what was best for his son, but more importantly, for his kingdom.

"You will not be my king for long," Patrick said softly. "I want you to abdicate the throne."

"What?" King Stiles said numbly. "You speak treason."

Patrick walked toward his father, his face taking on a look of calm determination. He stopped not two feet before him. They were of a height, and so son looked into father's eyes, deeply and deadly serious.

"Since you are so keen on making contracts," Patrick said softly, "here is _my _offer to you, Father. Either you abdicate, or _I _will. It's as simple as that. If you do not step down as king, I will leave here, taking Grace with me. You will never see us again, and any children we might have will be kept from you, kept from the throne. When you die, you will die alone, and your kingdom will die with you."

For a moment, Patrick had the distinct feeling his father might strike him for the first time since he was an unruly child. But when he saw that his son was serious, his face turned sad, his eyes filling with defeat.

"Are you truly prepared to be king? How will you keep the peace and strengthen our alliances? We will lose Vegas for sure…"

"No, we will not. I will help broker another mutually advantageous marriage for Princess Lorelei, but she will have a say in it. She will no longer be manipulated by her _father,_ either. And I will work to restore Queen Madeleine to the throne in Hartshorne. I will marry again, and Grace will choose her own groom. I know you would not want to sacrifice your own grandchildren again, would you?" Patrick finished speaking, a threatening edge to his tone.

The old man shook his head, and this time, Patrick saw his eyes watering with regret, and perhaps a bit of pride. The prince let go of his tension, but his father looked anxious to say something more.

"Looks like you have given me little choice. But Patrick…I am sorry about Angela and Charlotte. I had no idea what Red John would do to them, or I would never have…and I only made the agreement for Princess Lorelei because I saw how lonely you are, son. You need someone in your life, and that is all my fault."

Patrick reached out and touched his father's shoulder. "I know. But you need not worry about Red John now, or any other wizards." Then he smiled. "Except for me." It was the first time he'd acknowledged with words that he was truly a wizard himself.

Patrick experienced a kind of satisfaction within that he had never known before. He felt suddenly that he was truly connected to his role as the future king, confident that he could protect his people. Then his eyes found Teresa's as she patiently ministered to her friend. He smiled gently at her, the love she saw there making her smile in return.

"As for being lonely—I don't think that will be a problem for me anymore."

His father nodded, and for the first time in years, Patrick hugged him…and meant it.

"Now, Father, you must return to the ball. People will start to wonder where all their royal hosts have gone. I will take care of everything here, and in the ruined atrium."

"The ruined—?"

Patrick shrugged. "I left rather a mess, but I will see it's cleaned up. Could you please quietly send a surgeon for our brave knight here."

"Yes, of course," replied King Stiles, trying and failing not to notice how Grace was cradling the young man's head to her bosom.

Prince Patrick watched his father and guards go, then he joined his new friends and sister on the floor.

"Patrick…please…heal him."

"I wish that I could, Grace, but Red John neglected to teach me any healing spells. I'll have to find them out on my own now." But he caught Rigsby's eyes. "I can help you with the pain, I think. Look into my eyes, and listen to my voice, Rigsby. You are floating in a sea of peace, where there is no pain, where happiness and comfort are plentiful, surrounded by those you love…Feel the waves beneath you, rocking you back and forth like you were in your mother's arms…back and forth, back and forth…"

Rigsby's eyes took on a peaceful quality, and he relaxed, snuggling into Grace's soft breasts, a beatific grin upon his face. His sister smiled her gratitude, and since the bleeding seemed to have slowed considerably, Teresa rose and took Patrick's hand, leading him away from Grace, Rigsby, and Kimball.

"I'll have the best doctors see to Rigsby, I promise," he assured her.

"I know. And I thank you. But, there is the small matter of him being my husband."

"In name only, I gather."

She blushed. "Yes. I found myself with child, and realized I didn't know who the father was. I was deeply ashamed. The only thing I could remember was finding Rigsby in my house one morning…half naked on my floor. He couldn't remember how he got there either. Now I remember that was the night you'd brought me home from Hartshorne Castle, and he had stayed at my house to protect me.

"At first, we thought we might have been drunk, but that was not like either of us, to lay with someone and then forget…but I would have been completely ruined if I had not found a father for my child. I did not want him to have the stigma of a bastard." Tears formed in her green eyes at the thought of their dead son.

The guilt of it all threatened to overwhelm him. "If I had only known…" he whispered brokenly, one hand touching her cheek.

"I know. I don't say this to upset you. I wanted you to know that I chose Rigsby willingly. I thought it was the best thing for the baby. But now, it is obvious he has a tendre for Princess Grace, and I find I can't escape my feelings for you."

She smiled tenderly at him, and his heart practically burst with the knowledge that she longed for him as much as he did her.

"The raven told me you had spoken to RIgsby about an annulment. Do you think that is possible?"

"Perhaps. But it would involve a lie. I might not have lain with Rigsby since we wed, but there had been a baby, so I was no virgin. How would I explain that?"

"Who performed the rite?"

"We did not want the priest from our village to do it. We told everyone we had been married in secret months before, at the time to hide that we'd only wed because of the child. Rigsby found a priest from the Order of the Sacred Eye."

Kimball had been trying not to eavesdrop, but hearing this, he rose to his feet.

"What order did you say?"

She repeated it, then wondered, "Why do you ask?"

Kimball looked at Jane. "I was stopped by a storm from delivering your ransom. I was injured, and awoke to find myself in the abbey of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Eye. I left there when Summer told me the Sisters there were keeping me drugged so I wouldn't leave. She also mentioned that they practically worship their patron, Red John. And it was at the abbey that I first saw the raven, Dumar."

Patrick's eyes widened at this news, and he turned to Teresa. "You say your priest was from the Order of the Sacred Eye?"

"Yes," Teresa repeated. "I had no idea Red John was part of that order."

"Nor did I," said the prince. "The Church in Maliborough has labeled them heretics, a cult. They worship their sacred eye more than they do Jesus Christ." He shook his head in disbelief, then reached for Teresa's upper arms, holding them with barely contained excitement. "That man who married you was no more a priest than I am," he said triumphantly.

"If I had known, this, I would have warned you about that order," said Kimball to Teresa. "It is like the sisters at the abbey were bewitched, and no true Christian would have held a man against his will, likely awaiting orders to kill him. But he wasn't wearing red robes at the wedding."

"Perhaps he didn't want to be recognized," suggested Patrick. "This was all part of Red John's plan, don't you see? He had also sent one of his men as the surgeon's apprentice to poison Teresa." He pulled her to his chest, whispering into her soft hair. "I will consult with our priest here, but I am certain that your marriage would not be recognized by the true Catholic Church."

Teresa's arms tightened around Patrick's waist.

"I can't believe this is happening," she murmured.

"Believe it, my love," he replied. "Believe it."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Grace had remained alone at Rigsby's bedside as he slept, ensconced in one of the castle's finest guest chambers, dosed liberally with the syrup of the poppy. His cut had been carefully sewn together, and if it didn't become infected, the king's own surgeon said it should heal completely. It would leave a nasty scar, but before Rigsby had slipped into a deep, healing sleep, he had grinned in pleasure at the fine addition this would make to his other battle scars. Grace assured him rather suggestively that she couldn't wait to see them all. Rigsby had fallen asleep with a smile on his face, and she kissed him on the forehead, her small hand entwined with his.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The ball had ended long past midnight, and the castle grew quiet as the stay-over guests and permanent residents settled into their rooms. Teresa sat in the luxurious chamber the prince had assigned her, wearing a borrowed night rail and dressing gown Grace had loaned her. It fairly dragged the floor, but she was grateful for the clothing since she'd brought only a few things from home. This was supposed to have been a short trip, but now they must wait until Rigbsy was well enough to travel.

She sat before the mirror, brushing out her hair slowly, the fire in the hearth crackling merrily. She thought in wonder of all the revelations this night had wrought. She'd begun the evening with so many questions, and ended it with more answers than she had possibly imagined. It felt so good to have her memory back, yet so tragic at the same time. One hand went to her stomach, and she allowed herself a moment of mourning, for now her loss had added meaning, had added pain.

She was glad to realize the baby had been conceived in love, but saddened that Patrick had not been there to know little Owain for the brief time he had been on this earth within her womb. He might have felt him kick, or felt his strange movements beneath her skin. She set down her brush with a sigh. She would always love and miss Owain, but dwelling on the past would bring her nothing but sorrow.

A soft tap came upon her door and she rose, belting her dressing gown more modestly about her.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Your handsome prince," came the reply.

Teresa smiled, her heart accelerating at the thought that only a wooden door separated them now. For his benefit, however, she made her voice sound stern.

"I requested a _modest_, handsome prince. Go away."

She heard the key turn in the lock and she stepped back, holding her hands on her hips as he entered like he owned the place, which, of course, he did.

"They were fresh out of those," he said, standing before her in his own blue, silken dressing gown, ignoring her offended stance. "Will I do?"

"Hmm," she said. "Only time will tell on that count."

He shut the door quietly behind him, turning the key again for privacy. He'd already had six months of interruption; he wanted nothing to get in their way this night. He walked back to her, so lovely with her hair hanging loose about her shoulders and falling well below her breasts. He reached for a long lock and massaged it between his fingers. His other hand went to her flushed cheek.

"There are no words to say how much I have missed you, have ached for you, have felt I would go mad with longing," he told her. "Just standing in your presence like this is the answer to every wish, every dream since I left you."

She turned her head to kiss his hand. "I have longed too, but I knew not for what. I don't know whether that is worse..."

Patrick shook his head with a small smile. "Still trying to compete with me, I see. Let us leave those horrid months behind us and start again as if it is only the day after our time in your barn. There is still fresh hay in your hair, and your cheeks have a wanton glow from all of our…_exertions_." His hands dropped to the loose tie at her waist as his smile grew wicked.

She reached for his sash as well, meeting his eyes as their fingers worked despite their trembling. She was pleasantly surprised to find he wore nothing beneath his robe. When her hands found his warm skin, they both shuddered, and she stepped closer to his well-formed body, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, allowing the silk to fall away and land on the floor in a puddle of blue.

"And you haven't shaved for days," she continued with the fantasy, her fingertips gently tracing his nearly smooth jaw. "And you are wearing the costume of a peasant, not the silken robe of a king."

He took her into his arms now, and she could feel every hard peak and plane pressed against the thin cotton of her night rail. He nuzzled his face into her bare neck.

"And you smell of cinnamon and leather and horseflesh."

"What?" she exclaimed, pulling away to look up at him in outrage. "I just had a bath."

He chuckled. "Just continuing the fantasy, Teresa. That's how you smelled when I first met you, my little thief. You have no idea how that scent has haunted me."

"So you won't become aroused unless I roll around in a barn with the horses?"

He pressed his hips against her and her breath caught. "I see no hay now, do you?" he asked.

She smiled, moving her own hips a little until he gasped and reached down to still her torturous movements.

"Perhaps I was wrong-"she began.

He cut off her words with a hungry kiss, and Patrick found he was no longer in the mood for teasing. His fingers found the ribbons at her neck, and he unlaced them before breaking their kiss just long enough to pull off the last barrier between them.

"You are more beautiful than I remembered," he said in awe, his heated gaze roaming over her soft curves.

"As are you," she told him, reaching up to touch the beloved laugh lines near his eyes. He kissed her more gently this time, intending to savor this reunion, but he quickly became overwhelmed by the long-suppressed passion he felt welling up within him. He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, parting the canopy curtains to lay her on the luxurious damask coverlet.

"This is what you were meant for, my love. Exquisite fabrics on a bed fit for a queen." He lowered his head to kiss one lovely breast. "Not to mention a _body_ fit for a king…"

He felt her light laughter beneath his mouth at his shamelessness, but that quickly turned to a moan as his tongue swirled around each hardened peak. At the same time, his hands roamed lower, parting her and circling there until she lay trembling beneath him. But he wasn't ready to put her out of her misery yet. With a farewell kiss to each breast, his mouth moved down toward her stomach. He paused there, his hands coming up to caress her slightly rounded flesh. He kissed her reverently, secretly hoping that with this night, he would fill that empty space once more.

He glanced up at her face, saw the tears in her eyes as she was no doubt thinking the same things. He found her mouth again, kissing away their pain to allow them to focus on the here and now. And here and now, he drifted back down to her stomach again, but lower still, until he found the softness of one inner thigh.

"Jane," she cried, invoking her old pet name for him.

He smiled against her leg, but then found the treasure he'd been searching for. Her hips lifted off the bed, and he placed a gentle hand on her stomach to still her as he plundered her sweetness with his lips and seeking tongue. Her hands came down to his head, weaving into the soft curls to guide him as he learned her taste, learned what made her thighs tremble and her passionate moans intensify. He employed his fingers too, until she felt near death with the unbearable pleasure building up within her.

He increased his tempo, devouring her like a deprived man would the sweetest of fruits, until at last, she succumbed to her passion. Her world went dark and she lay there, a quivering mass beneath him. When she had stilled except for occasional paroxysms of leftover pleasure, Teresa opened her eyes to see the prince sitting beside her, the firelight flickering over his naked body, watching her with masculine satisfaction. She blushed anew, amazed she could feel embarrassment at just a look when she knew where that sensual mouth had just been.

"So, what is your conclusion, my lady?" he asked, smirking at her seemingly boneless body. "Will I do?"

But she surprised him when she suddenly sat up enough to pull him down to join her. "I haven't yet had enough of you to decide," she said, her jewel toned eyes dark with renewed desire.

"Well," he said, as he positioned his body above hers, "I'll have to remedy that, won't I?"

A/N: Okay, folks, one more chapter to go! A few more loose ends to tie up, and an epilogue that will be the happy ending I've promised you.

If you choose to leave a review, please be sure that you are logged in to this new fangled review form here on . It can be a little temperamental at times. Thanks so much for reading!


	19. Conclusion

A/N: Well, here is the conclusion at last! I so hope you have enjoyed this story. I suppose if you are still here, you must have found something to keep your interest. Thanks for your support of yet another strange experiment of mine.

I hope this last chapter ties up all my loose ends and hanging plotlines. Let me know if I've forgotten something, lol. Forgive me in advance for the fluffiness…

Chapter 19: Conclusion

When he was certain his friend, Rigsby was well taken care of, Sir Kimball went out to find their abandoned horses, then released the poor noblemen and women they'd left tied up in their carriage. He'd borrowed the livery of a knight of Maliborough Castle (with Prince Patrick's blessing) so his pretend discovery of the robbery victims would appear genuine and he would be less likely to be recognized. As he returned their clothing, (save Rigsby's bloodied shirt) he told them the highwaymen had been caught and would be severely punished. Frightened and angry that they'd missed the ball, the shaken party rode away into the night.

It had been a strange night, stranger still that all at once he'd been given back memories of what he'd missed six months before. Since he hadn't been around the prince and princess much at the time, he hadn't been at as big a loss as his friends in Sacraham, but it was a good feeling to know he hadn't, in fact, been insane. Now that he knew why he'd been headed to Maliborough, the events leading to his first encounter with Summer had been fleshed out, and he was able to think on that time more fondly. It had been during this time that he'd fallen in love with her, and it was no longer tainted by uncertainty and doubt of his own sanity.

Now, if he could only bring his head around to doing what his heart longed to.

The next morning, he checked in on Rigsby, who was being nursed and coddled by the princess herself.

"How are you feeling?" Kimball asked his friend, watching in awe as actually royalty was spooning soup into his mouth.

"Like someone ripped open my gut with a sword," he replied between bites.

"I see you're in good hands," Kimball replied, bowing slightly to Grace.

"Yes, and lovely hands they are." Rigsby said, looking with unabashed love into her eyes.

"Well, since that is the case," Kimball said wryly, "if the boss doesn't need me, I'm heading home to Sacraham as soon as I get leave to."

"What? Why? We just got here."

How could he explain it? The night before, he'd seen the touching reunions of Teresa and the prince, then of Rigsby and the princess. It was like one of the fairy stories Kimball would never admit to reading, and he knew, were it not for his stubbornness, his own happy ending might be waiting for him at home.

Then Rigsby nodded and smiled knowingly. "You old dog. You're missing Summer, that's what this is. The ale's dried from your face and you're having second thoughts."

"Summer?" queried Grace curiously. Rigbsy held up his hand against anymore soup. She set the bowl and spoon on the nearby table.

"That's the lady love he left in Sacraham," Rigsby explained. "Summer told him she was no cow, and he'd be getting no more free cream from her, or something along those lines..." Rigsby chuckled, then cringed in pain as the movement pulled his injured stomach muscles.

"Sir Rigsby," Grace chastised at his vulgar words. Rigsby colored in embarrassment.

"It is a truth I'm not proud of," said Kimball solemnly. "I need to go home and make…peace with her."

Rigsby raised his eyebrows. "Yeah. Peace. I suppose that's one name for it."

Kimball supposed he deserved that, but that didn't prevent him from rushing to the defense of a lady's honor. "I'd appreciate your not besmirching the name of my future wife," he said seriously.

Rigsby's eyes widened comically. "Wife?"

Kimball nodded. "That's right."

"She'll take some convincing, after your last meeting. You weren't exactly Prince Charming to her."

"No, I was an ass. I plan to make it up to her."

"Well, I wish you good luck with your Summer," said Grace, staying Rigsby with a look from making another cutting remark.

"Uh, yes, my friend," replied Rigsby, well-chastened. "As do I. Godspeed."

The two men shook hands, and Kimball bowed his farewell to Princess Grace.

When he'd gone from the room, Grace stifled a yawn, and Rigsby looked upon her with concern, then noted she was still wearing her ball gown from the night before.

"Have you been here all night with me?"

"Yes. You needed looking after…"

"You have a surgeon and servants for that," he said, scowling.

"It was no hardship…I—I enjoyed it."

He smiled as she blushed. "Well, I thank you, but I'd feel much better now if you were to get some rest. I'm sore, but I'll be quite all right."

"I don't know if I could sleep. So much has happened."

"Yes," he said, taking her hands in his. "It has. And Grace…I just want to say—" he cleared his throat nervously. "We don't really know each other well, but back in Sacraham, I—I knew the moment I saw you, you were the woman for me. I know it sounds absurd, given our different stations, and what they say about fishes loving birds…"

"No," she protested. "I feel the same. The way you looked at me—the way you still do now. No one has ever looked beyond my tiara to see who I really am. I've always been considered a prize for the winning. A key to the kingdom. Then, when I was sold off to Lord Craig like so much chattel, you attempted to rescue me."  
>"It wasn't just me—" he began humbly.<p>

"Perhaps, but you were all I saw in Hartshorne's throne room that day. I knew you were there for _me_, not just to be the valiant knight you are. And last night, you nearly died for me." He could see the welling of emotion in her eyes, born perhaps from exhaustion, but mostly, he saw in surprise, an emotion he never dared see reflecting back at him.

"Oh, Wayne," she cried, suddenly, throwing herself upon his torso, bare beneath the linen sheet. "I love you so!"

Rigsby gasped in pain at the unexpected onslaught, but as he felt the wetness of her tears on his skin, and the warm kisses she was showering over his neck and chest, the pain seemed to fade away, and he wrapped his arms around her slim body.

"Grace," he whispered, his hands finding her chin, then lifting it so he might meet her beautiful amber gaze. "I love you too."

He pulled her head gently down so he could reach her trembling pink mouth at last. At first it was merely a gentle meeting of lips, infinitely sweet and tender. But then a hot tendril of desire curled up from his stomach to wrap around his heart, and he held her even more tightly, his tongue seeking hers. She gave a startled cry at the unfamiliar sensation—no man had ever kissed her in this way. She was at once frightened and excited, and after a tentative touching of her tongue to his, a low moan escaped their throats, and Rigsby's hands slipped into her bound hair.

He wanted nothing more than this kiss to last forever, but when he instinctively pulled her body atop his, the pain was too great to ignore anymore, and for a moment he thought he might faint from the agony along with his current deprivation of oxygen from his mouth being so long fused to hers.

"Oh, Wayne! I'm so sorry," she exclaimed, breaking their kiss and moving off his body immediately. Her hair was disheveled and falling from the braids once tightly coiled about her head, her lips plump from his ardent kisses. But her eyes were raw with sensuality mixed with concern that she had hurt him.

Rigsby closed his own eyes tightly, his jaw set against the pain from his wound, but also from a little lower, with the pain of thwarted desire.

"I'm fine…truly…" he managed. He felt her soft lips brush against his again and his pulse leaped. Slowly, he opened his eyes as he found his way out of the blackness.

"I will let you rest, Sir Rigsby," she muttered. "I fear I've overexcited you."

Rigsby blushed furiously, wondering if she had been able to feel just how excited he was when she'd been practically lying on top of him moments before.

"Yes," he said. "Perhaps that's best, so long as you promise to find your bed as well."

"I will," she agreed. She placed her slender hand on his cheek and looked into his dazed blue eyes. "You are my brave, brave knight."

With another sweet kiss to his cheek, she left him. Despite his exhaustion and residual pain, it was a long time before Rigsby's heart and mind would settle enough to allow sleep to take him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day, Teresa paid Rigsby a visit. Grace looked up from her usual place beside the patient's bed, and a distinctly uncomfortable pall filled the room. Teresa was his wife, and Grace had been kissing someone else's husband. She flushed and rose.

"I'll let you two talk," she said, and left the room before Teresa could say a word.

She smiled at her long-time friend and short-time husband.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Sore. And you? There's a lot to take in, isn't there?" he said, in gross understatement. He looked at her sheepishly.

"Yes."

"Look," Rigsby began in a sudden rush, "I know this is highly improper, Teresa. We may both remember what really happened—or what _didn't_ happen—but you're still my wife, and I should be showing you more respect."

"So, no one has told you," she replied.

"Told me what?"

She sighed. "You were in a lot of pain last night…That priest you found to marry us—he wasn't really Catholic, Rigsby. Prince Patrick spoke to a real priest. The Church doesn't recognize any clergy from The Order of the Sacred Eye. They're considered heathens even. Red John controlled that church, as I imagine he controlled the so-called priest who married us."

"What? You mean—"

"We're not married. In the eyes of the Church, no vow we took would be binding, to either of us."

They were both quiet as Rigsby absorbed her words. He looked up at her with a small smile.

"Would I be too forward to think that this is…good news?" he asked her.

Her smile came then too. "Yes. But let me say, Rigsby, that you were so kind to me, so good of a friend to have married me, even though you had no idea whether the baby was yours. Never doubt you will make some lady a very fine husband someday. Perhaps, a certain princess?"

"Thank you," he replied, and his eyes went to the door through which the princess had exited. Then a shadow crossed his face, and he became serious once more. "I would have raised Owain like my own, you know," he told her. "I still feel the loss of him as if he had been."

She sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand, her eyes watering. "Yes, I know. But Grace will give you many beautiful babes, and I know you will be a wonderful father. That was the reason, when I'd been so lost, that I knew I could depend upon you."

He squeezed her small hand gently. "And you, Teresa. I know no child can replace your first, but you will have more, I'm sure of it."

She nodded, her throat constricted with emotion. She leaned over then and kissed his lips, their first since their wedding day. "I love you, Wayne Rigsby," she whispered. And they both knew what she meant by that.

"I love you too, Teresa."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Four months later…_

The forests surrounding the village of Sacraham were redolent with the scent of spring flowers, the floor green with ferns and vines that climbed the towering trees overhead. It was here that King Patrick and his lovely new queen knelt down beneath a white birch tree, heedless of staining his fine lawn breeches, or her apricot silk morning gown. Patrick's eyes lowered to the small mound before them. He took Teresa's hand, tears forming in both their eyes.

"Here is Owain," she said on a whisper, laying her armful of wildflowers upon her son's diminutive grave.

She had only been to the grave once before, a month after she had lost him. At the time, of course, she had believed the baby to have been Rigbsy's, and he had led her there to show her where he and Kimball had buried her baby boy. It had been an emotional occasion then, but nothing compared to Patrick's reaction upon seeing his child's grave.

He broke down then, crying with great sobbing gulps, and Teresa gathered him into her arms. He'd endured enough painful loss to have lasted several lifetimes.

"Had I only been here, this never would have happened," he said, after a few heart-wrenching moments.

"Red John was determined to destroy our happiness, Patrick. I don't think anyone could have stopped him."

She felt him shaking his head against her breast. "I suppose we will never know. Thank you for bringing me here. Now…I have a place to picture him." He raised his head and looked at the vibrant surroundings, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. "It's beautiful here."

"Yes," she said.

Despite this moment of intense sadness and regret, the rest of her time with Patrick had been wonderful. When Rigsby had recovered, and Kimball had returned to Maliborough, he had brought with him his new wife and Teresa's father. Sir Minelli would be staying in the castle with them for now on. And so, with all her family and friends surrounding them, Teresa and her prince could finally be wed.

They were married by a real priest in the castle's own private chapel. It had been a simple ceremony, for neither of them had wanted the fanfare and attention that would come from the expected royal wedding. King Stiles had protested at the extreme break in tradition, but Patrick had held firm, and in the end, it had been the king, Grace and Rigsby, Kimball and Summer, and Sir Minelli to bear witness to their vows.

A month later, King Stiles had abdicated the throne, citing failing health (which had actually become the truth since then) and in a truly traditional ceremony, King Patrick was crowned, along with his new wife, Queen Teresa.

It had been a whirlwind, and very much like a fairy tale of old. Among the many guests were the King of Vegas and his daughter, Princess Lorelei, invited in order to mend fences, along with the rightful monarch of Hartshorne, Queen Madeleine. Once the full extent of the evil surrounding Lord Craig's rise to power had been revealed, (confirmed by Patrick and his father) she was reinstalled as queen, war narrowly averted.

Princess Lorelei had become newly betrothed to Queen Madeleine's younger brother, a very beneficial match indeed, one that joined the three kingdoms in an unbreakable bond of good will. After his coronation, King Patrick had looked deeply into Lorelei's eyes. It would seem she too had been released from Red John's spell upon her father's death, and her true, sweet spirit had reemerged.

She still did not remember witnessing Red John's violent demise, but neither was she saddened to hear of it. She loved her adopted father, and neither she nor Patrick told him of her mother's betrayal with the dead wizard. She wished both Patrick and Teresa well, and Patrick sensed she was sincere.

Now the King and Queen of Maliborough had returned to Sacraham on a mission of good will—but mainly Teresa had come to see her old friends. The new king had made sure that Sacraham would never be denied its fair right to farm its own land, and with the help of Queen Madeleine, LaRoche had been ousted as sheriff, and Kimball put in his place. Rigsby had been designated his right hand, Sir Mashburn having been ordered back to serve the queen at Hartshorne Castle.

When it had come to Grace and Rigsby, things had become a bit more complicated. Rigsby had his mother and their farm to see to, and Grace had her royal duties in Maliborough. A wedding seemed like a fantasy. Still she had written to him every day, sending a bundle of letters off to Sacraham once a week. She'd actually received the same from him, but still, she was horribly unhappy.

Patrick had released her from her duties, but she still felt she owed the people of Maliborough her time and attention. She paid visits to the sick and the poor, seeing to it that they did not go hungry, that they received the best of care.

"Who would do this were I to leave?" she'd asked her brother in anguish.

"I would do it," Teresa told her one day, after Patrick had shared why she had not gone to Rigsby in Sacraham. "I'm bored silly these days. Being a queen is not quite the exciting job I had hoped. I haven't robbed a noble coach in months," she said, finding that her disappointment in that fact was only partly feigned.

Grace's face had brightened. "Truly? You would look after them for me?"

"Of course. On the condition that were you to live in Sacraham, you would care for my people there."

"Oh, yes, Teresa!" she had said, hugging her new sister tightly until Teresa squirmed for breath.

And so it had been decided, and the three had left for Teresa's village once again.

Patrick glanced now at his sister, standing a respectful distance from the grave of her nephew, trying to hide how anxious she was to see Rigsby. She did not have to wait for long. Rigsby must have seen their carriage parked before Teresa's old cottage, for suddenly he bounded through the woods toward them.

"Wayne!" cried Grace, running to meet him in her royal purple gown, her vibrant red hair bouncing in its long braid behind her. Rigsby's longer legs quickly ate up the distance between them, and they met beneath the trees, kissing like they had been separated years instead of months. But Patrick quite understood—one day away from the one you loved could feel like a year of agony.

The king turned back to his queen, and he helped her to her feet.

"Are you all right?" she asked him. He sniffled a little sheepishly.

"Yes. Sorry I was so emotional."

She grabbed his arm, and he looked down at her upturned face, dearer to him than the air he breathed.

"No. There is no need to be sorry. You have lost so much, Jane. More than most men ever have to bear."

He hugged her to his body, inhaling her fragrance, heady competition to the loveliest of forest flowers.

"I have _you _now," he told her. "And the happiness of my sister. There is nothing more I could want, nothing more that I deserve."

She went up on tiptoes and kissed him lightly, then brought his hand gently to her stomach.

"Nothing more?" she asked, arching an amused brow as she gauged his reaction.

"What?" he said, not daring to hope.

"Come autumn, you will have a new child to spoil as much as you do me," she whispered, her eyes sparkling brightly, this time with tears of joy. She had waited for the right moment to tell him her suspicions, and here, now, in this place that was so important to them both, she had found the perfect time to share her news.

Very tenderly, as if she'd suddenly become breakable within the last minute, he gathered her into his arms, but the kiss he bestowed upon her was by no means gentle. It was filled with gratitude and immeasurable happiness, and a love so deep he could not begin to quantify it. He touched his nose to hers and stepped back to admire her newly discovered state, his eyes raking her body for the tiniest of changes.

Then his eyes smiled into hers. "You may have this baby, but on one condition," he said teasingly. "You may not teach him the ways of thievery."

"And I will give you this baby," she countered mischievously, "If you do not teach _her_ the ways of magic."

"I thought you were beginning to like my magical powers…"

He leaned down to nuzzle at her neck, just below her ear. She closed her eyes, remembering how he'd employed a certain bit of magic in their bedchamber of the roadside inn the night before. He'd undressed her without even touching her. She shivered at the memory, her fingers sliding into his golden locks now, holding him fast to her body.

"It has its…merits," she agreed. "And never forget, dear Jane, it was thievery that brought us together to begin with," she told him.

"True. You quickly captured my very heart and soul, the moment you commandeered my body, lovely Saint Teresa." He grinned at his own mawkishness. He knew without seeing her face that she was rolling her eyes at him.

"And what we have together is…magic," she countered in amusement.

"That it is, my love," he said, his hand moving lovingly to her stomach. "That it is."

_And they lived happily ever after…_

_The End_

A/N: Please let me know if you liked this ending. Yes, it was overly sentimental in places, but aren't all fairy tales? Thanks again for reading this. Please look for waterbaby's next chapter of "Scarlet Woman", along with my next season 1 tag, which will be for "Bloodshot," 1x16.


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